Where Pathways Meet
by the au lait
Summary: Sherlock/John, Omegaverse AU. Basically, friendship, angst, adventure, smut, more angst, then fluff. Sherlock and John were together since they were young, now in London for uni. John has a secret crush on Sherlock. Gorgeous-alpha!Sherlock, Gorgeous-omega!John, BAMF!John. WIP
1. (1) Prelude-Chapter 1

**Disclaimers: **No characters are under my possession. If it was, then Mary Morstan would be out of the scene and the detective would be shagging his sidekick.

**Notes: **Words in _Italic_ would be not spoken, but instead thought by characters. Mostly by John.  
Words starting with a bar '- like this' are words spoken in the past, used especially during reminiscing scenes.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

1. Prelude-Chapter 1

Soft fingers were tracing his forehead.

- An alpha and an omega cannot be the same. It had always been that way.

The whispering voice was his mother's. The scent of cinnamon and cookies always brought warmth into one's heart. Feeling the texture of his mother's apron against his face, a young John Watson was lingering over the border of hazy daydream and reality during a remote Sunday afternoon.

- It was an honour, when Sir Holmes bothered to take care of your grandfather... He was an omega. Your grandmother was an alpha, but he lost her in a tragic accident. After her funeral, her family pushed him into the streets... and Sir Holmes took him under his wings.

Her voice, equivalent to the softest lullabies, hummed gently on John's nerves. His sight darkened as her fingers kept stroking against his hairs, the feeling vivid even in the drowsy darkness.

The Holmses was famous for their all-alpha heirs. A person with the Holmes name was always an alpha. Sure, there's an exception for everything, and betas were born every now and then-but they had talents to hinder the inferiority of their gender. They were one of the few families that God blessed with wealth, fame and glory trailing along being an alpha.

Perhaps the all-alpha offspring could be blamed on the fact that the Holmeses never took an omega as their spouses. The reason was simple: Lust cannot cloud reason. A beta spouse was a perfect match for the Holmses who thought wisdom and acute interpretation as one of the best values. Due to genetics, no omega could be born from the alpha-beta couples, only alphas or rarely betas.

Needless to say, they were one of the highest families in Great Britain. They were everywere; politicians, CEOs, scholars and artists. No celebrity could deem success unless they have a Holmes friend.

And John Watson was the family's retainer. His grandfather, an omega, was forced to the streets with an infant son. Nathanael Holmes, the head of the Holmeses, recruited him as the gardener of the family. Despite his status being an omega, his loyalty and diligence made him the butler of the family. Thankfully, John's father was an alpha, who succeeded the job after his father's death. John's mother was also one of the numerous children who was helped by the Holmeses. The family helped her to uni, and gave her the career she was now engaging with, a career she worked on with utter pleasure and sincerity. So John and Harry, as their child, were fated to be brainwashed about the glory and blessing of the Holmeses since they were a child. That memory from the hazy Sunday afternoon 10 years ago, was part of the numerous teachings.

They grew into one of the most loyal people for the Holmeses. So it wasn't a surprise that the picky Holmses selected John Watson as the playmate for their youngest, Sherlock Holmes-despite the fact that John Watson is an omega.

~oOo~

If you ask John Watson about Sherlock Holmes, he would answer as the following; that Sherlock Holmes is a _fuckin'_ genius.

He was the best in almost all fields. While John managed to take a grasp of playing the clarinet, Sherlock mastered the violin, aced algebra and won the national piano competition. But due to the fact that he is indeed a genius, his personalities matched the expecations. He was one hell of a sassy child. The fact that he was on a wierd enemy-like love-hate relationship with his brother Mycroft remains as a mystery for a lot of people. Nobody approached him unless with their greatest guts, and ones who did succeed were easily estranged.

Except John Watson.

He was the eyes and ears of Sherlock. Those who held Sherlock in contempt called him the 'dog of the Holmeses', but even they still favoured John Watson. He was always the sweetest boy in school, a gentleman and an idol among his peers.  
Despite all of their differences, John and Sherlock was always inseparable since their first encounter.

And that, was the pain in the ass for John right now.

"You should never leave me."

Sherlock Holmes, the youngest and the most brilliant of the Holmes, was pouting and getting all sulky at John. John let out a sigh.

"Sherlock, please. Anyway, we will live together, won't we? Even we will go to the same uni."  
"But the courses will be different."

This hassle was due to the fact, that John did not applied for a course as Sherlock did. Since his graduation from Eton was impending, John applied for the UCL medical school. The got-in notice came today, and Sherlock found it. For John, even though it was the greatest honour, was also an invitation to the nagging-party-by-Sherlock. Even though Sherlock repeatedly claimed John to join his application for the law course, John kept his decision and progressed his application unbeknownst to Sherlock.

"I feel so betrayed, Watson."

John stared at Sherlock, wordless. Sherlock used to call him 'Watson' every time he gets angry. Each time, John felt like if Sherlock was running away from him at least for a thousand miles. Like the floor underneath him was crumbling down. But he should be content, for now. John was enraged, and with a very good reason.

"Why, 'Holmes'? My dream is to be a doctor, and you have no rights to stick your nose in it."

All of a sudden, Sherlock's face fell-into embarassment. As if he was bitten by his beloved pet and was rushing to the hospital. And at the same moment, John tasted a subtle sense of victory. Until now, he never protested against Sherlock. Even when John, 10 years old, had to send a way a dog he loved so much because Sherlock said it made too much noise. John cried for days, but he never stood against Sherlock for his loss.

But it was his dream. John wanted to become a doctor, and he studied hard for it. UCL was his dream school and he got in. But Sherlock was the problem.

"We should be together, always-"  
"-and your mother offered to find a flat for us. Both of us."

But Sherlock was still fuming with rage.

"That's not enough."

Sherlock rose from his armchair and snatched at John's wrist, who was standing in front of him. Totally unexpected, John widened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock.

"Sherlock-?"  
"I _need_ you."

And Sherlock broke loose from John's wrist and stormed out of the room. John cradled his tingling wrist with his other hand, doing nothing besides looking dumbly at Sherlock striding out. When his wits finally returned to him, John growled against the empty armchair.

"Bastard."

~oOo~

_Baker street 221B._ Packing his bags, John quietly recited his new address in his head where he and Sherlock would live now on. _A place for upper classes,_ John thought. If not for the Holmeses, John could have never afforded it. But they, especially for John and his family, were very generous. Perhaps it would count on the fact that John was kind of on a status equal to 'bodyguard-friend-babysitter' of Sherlock.

"John."

The voice was beautiful, words were spoken as if singing. She was Sherlock's mother. The lady of the house, and one of the brightest stars on London's high society. Victoria Elisa Holmes was the queen of all ladies. She was a tall, slender woman with elegant beauty, raven locks and milky skin. The lavender two-piece was strikingly matching her blue eyes. She drifted to John's side, placing a loving kiss on his forehead.

"You absence would bring me down so much, dear."

"I'd miss you as much... Mrs. Holmes."

"Oh, John, please. You know you can all me Victoria."

"But how can I-"

"-John."

She placed a hand on his shoulders. Warm hands.

"You're like a son to me. At least more of a son than that cold-blooded friend of yours."

John smiled. Her face melted at his smile, and she pulled John into a tight embrace.

"I adore your mother of having such a son."

John smiled quietly, returning the embrace. She petted John on the back until she was content, and then she held John by his shoulders while looking into his eyes.

"So. Wasn't Sherlock cranky of your decision?"

Of course she know all about Sherlock's whining and pouting. She had ears and eyes on every columns and walls of this house. John laughed.

"He was, in fact, seemingly displeased."

Victoria's laugh was like a warm summer breeze. Her face was filled with pleasure.

"If not for you, I would doubt Sherlock of being a human."

John laughed back.

"You seem happy about it."

"Surely I am, as he pouting is not a usual ocurrence."

She petted affenctionately on John's blonde hair.

"Please, look after him... I can never stop worrying about Sherlock."

She sighed a little, but soon her worried looks transferred into a ladylike elegance with a hint of vain.

"At Chester Hall, we will always miss you, John."

John nodded slowly. She smiled at him, and drifted out of the room.

Returning to packing his stuff, John gradually indulged himself into memories from the place.

- Sherlock. This is John. John Watson.

The boy was standing beside a willowy black-haired beauty. His face was quite precocious, and John was highly doubtful that the boy was the same age as himself. The arrogant atmosphere surrounding the boy was the perfect demonstration that the boy was a Holmes. John gathered his wits and stuck out a hand towards the boy.

- My name is John Watson. Nice to meet you.

The alpha boy flickered his blue eyes-suprisingly clear, beautiful eyes-at John for a while, until he threw himself at John and hugged him tightly.

- You're mine.

John supposed that was the time when Sherlock's possessive trait towards himself started. Sherlock was oblivious to anyone until then, and he claimed John 'his', refusing to let John go for hours. Of course Chester Hall buzzed of the story since then.

Sherlock never left John's side since their first meeting, forcing his parents to bring John to live with them. John's residence at Chester Hall continued from that time, and Sherlock brought John with him to Eton. John's family wasn't able to afford public school tuitions, but the Holmeses promised him of support. It made John to become even more loyal to the family.

Chester Hall was a beautiful mansion. Built at Christmas 500 years ago, it went through various extensions and repairs which led to the magnificent and breathtaking façade of today. John loved this enormous mansion. This was the place where he spent the days, running the fields around the mansion. He occupied the mansion only for vacations during his Eton years, but he always kept this room, and it was home for him. Sitting down at his bed, he reminisced the nights he spent in this room.

- John. Look at this. I found this at the fields. Fascinating, isn't it?

- John. I'm bored. Let's watch movies.

- John. Read me this book. I'm too tired to read.

- John. The thunder is roaring. Sleep with me.

Sherlock. All Sherlock. Among the many rooms and countless hallways of the mansion, Sherlock always frequented his room. Moving to the same flat would cause even more of it.

Before he knew, John was smiling.

~oOo~

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson."

She was a nice old lady, but a little gossipy. She stared at John for a while.

"You're a very nice omega, young lad. I've never seen an omega like you."

Apparently, her words suddenly sent Sherlock into fits.

"You're the discriminating one?"

"Oh, no, my dear. I'm a beta, but I've got lots of omega friends. And you're an extraordinary one."

John placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, and soon Sherlock stepped back.

"We would occupy your flat from now own. I'm John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes."

"It's an honour to meet you. Never expected to meet a Holmes in my lifetime."

Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.

Before John recognised, Sherlock was staring at Mrs. Hudson- a stare all too familiar for John.

"...Your daughter. Fine altogether?"

Mrs. Hudson gaped at his words.

"-How did you know?"

"She's in Paris? A lovely city, isn't it?"

Her mouth was opened so wide, it seemed as if a bug would easily find it as a cave. John quickly stepped in.

"He's always like this. You should be used to it."

Mrs. Hudson stared blankly at John. Sherlock moved his hand and signalled to somebody. Then the porters came in to move their stuffs inside.

~oOo~

When John met the first morning at his new flat, his heart was filled with expectations as he stepped out of bed. Finding a robe to cover his pajamas, he tried to calm down his disheveled bed hair. When he walked out of the room, he found-

"What on earth are you doing?"

-Sherlock, examining whatever-shmapp-it-is on his microscope. Without turning his eyes to John, he pointed at a paper attached next to the table.

It read: Scientific study in process. Don't bother to disturb.

John sighed. Well, it was the usual. John absent-mindedly wondered what his day would be like, while trudging to the coffee machine and stuffing roasted beans into the machine.

College wasn't an option for a few days, so his schedule was as blank as never. The only thing John had to do was to enjoy his new flat and the new surroundings.

(Crashing noise)

...And, taking care of Sherlock. John sighed, turned his back, and analysed the scene he was now facing.

"Please, Sherlock, I told you not to play the wanton with experiment equipment. Especially one with glasses."

Apparently, Sherlock left a box of cover slides on the rim of the kitchen table. Glass fragments was covering the floor as if it was a confetti. Not even flinching for a little, Sherlock opened his mouth.

"...Few more boxes would be needed."

It meant that John had to clean this mess and go out to look for boxes of cover slides. John stood for a while in a daze, gaping at Sherlock's impudence, and when he got his mind back, he ran to find a broom. Staying quiet while John cleaned the pieces of broken glass and put on his coat to step outside, Sherlock yelled at John the instant John turned the doorknob.

"One cup of tea, please."

John seriously considered throwing the umbrella he was holding at Sherlock's annoying face for a moment, but still he managed to take off his coat, return to the kitchen and made a cup of tea for Sherlock before going outside.

All, for Sherlock.

* * *

**A/N**: Hello! Before you say anything, please take in mind that English is not my mother tongue. I've got almost no experience in writing an English fic, so my grammars and expressions may suck as hell :P So if you want to point out about the details(anything, really), I would appreciate so much. Please be gentle on insults and let me know if you enjoyed even a little.

I hope you like my portrayal of characters, as they are entirely different from the BBC version. They're uni students, so they're young and a little naïve for now. And Sherlock would be a less of a 'pain-in-the-ass' as John kept to be on his side for years :D

**+) Updated 03-01-2014**: Fused Chapters 1&2 together. Also, minor restatement, thanks to Nell(guest review)! Don't hesitate to correct my mistakes! ;)


	2. (1) Prelude-Chapter 2

**Disclaimers: **I don't own Sherlock, John, or other beloved characters. If I did, then I would hire Mark Gatiss specifically to produce a gayest Sherlock as possible. Which means, Johnlock written all over.

* * *

Where Pathways meet

1. Prelude-Chapter 2

~oOo~

Just as expected, the first day of uni was hardly close to ordinary. To be more specific, John hoped it could be, but Sherlock Holmes made it impossible.

"Is it possible for a law student to join a course explicit for medical students?"

On the first day of the semester, Sherlock stormed into the student office of UCL, got the attention of a poor staff who would have never imagined his day would be besmirched by the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

"What? That's..."

The staff stuttered, bewildered by Sherlock's sudden appearance and his aggressive tone. Finally being able to catch up with Sherlock, John ran in and pulled at Sherlock with his best strength.

"Sherlock-! Please! Go!"  
"No, I can't. We should share an identical schedule."

Sherlock lifted his chin and looked directly into the eyes of the poor staff, who was now feeling even offended a little. After an hour of struggle, John was late for his class and Sherlock hurried off fuming with sulk. Everyone knew who Sherlock was, due to his crazily famous family, so John Watson and Sherlock Holmes quickly became one of the hottest gossip subjects for the campus.

After a week, John recognised a throng of girls following the two of them.

"...What a nuisance."

John, with his left hand supporting his forehead, groped at his salad with his fork. They were having a bite near the uni. With a perfectly still face, Sherlock looked at John over the newspaper.

"What is?"

The fork fell from John's hand, and a loud clanking noise followed.

"You. You! My classmates are already calling me the 'reserved-family doctor of the Holmeses'. Somebody just called me John Holmes."

Clearly remembering the sneering tone and a mischievous look, John furiously wielded his fork into the air.

"I never thought you would be my family doctor."

Still maintaining an aloof expression, Sherlock was chewing his chicken, and John stared at him with an intricate expression on his face. _Is that a compliment, or an insult?_ Of course, coming from others, that might be an insult-but when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, he so often mumble things which ordinary people cannot perceive as its intended meaning. John believed this was one of those cases.

"You're **_my_** doctor. I cannot let you take care of other Holmeses."

If this came from a lover, it must be romantic- but if the spoken entity was Sherlock Holmes, it makes one dumbfounded.

"...Oh, right?"

John wasn't witted enough at the moment to find any appropriate answers for the apparent jibber-jabber. Feeling that his patience towards Sherlock reached the level of nirvana, John laughed at himself, picked up his fork and continued to grope at his salad.

"Yeah... It was _my_ fault... _I_ should not have applied for the medical course..."

Sherlock's eyes, hastening over the lines of The Times, sparkled at the statement. He tossed the paper away, banged his hands onto the table, and directly looked into John's eyes.

"Then change the course."

_What?_

"The semester just started, so it won't be much of a trouble if you change it fast. Change it."

John cordially considered of punching Sherlock's face. It could have been better if Sherlock was jesting-but his expression was screaming sincerity.

"Sherlock- you- God-"

Sherlock gazed at John for a while, but suddenly relocated his attention to another. Then he blurted out:

"The couple over there is definitely having an affair. The man is smitten about the woman, but she wouldn't dare to give up the current husband."

John felt he could really use a good sob right now.

~oOo~

After a considerable amount of time has passed, John started to fit himself into the daily lives at Baker Street 221B.

When his classes were over, he worked on his papers if he had one, cleaned the flat(mostly the residues of Sherlock's 'experiments'), cooked for Sherlock(sometimes Sherlock demanded a certain cuisine, and John always followed his orders), or shopped for groceries.

Those kinds of daily activities, at least, calmed John down.

Unfortunately, Sherlock, was consistently acting in an inconsistent way. John totally got the irony of the statement, but it was true anyway. For two months, the physical time John spent at the flat, while John felt like as if it had been centuries, those 'daily activities' might actually account for 20% at most. John spent the other by dealing with three very pissed law students(apparently pissed at Sherlock), and the never-ending trail of omegas and betas, even alphas acting as if they were fans and Sherlock was a star entertainer.

John had to pay extra attention to the ones who tried to flirt with him, usually a very blatant come-on. He also had to make Sherlock's bed, clean the kitchen table on which Sherlock 'experimented', replaced the microwave Sherlock somehow managed to have it exploded(_seriously, what have he done?_), and took care of Sherlock who tried to attack the Scotland Yard every time they did 'stupid things' and he read it on the papers. John's life was truly centered around Sherlock, as if the Earth revolves around the Sun(which apparently, Sherlock deleted from his mind palace).

Completely drained of energy, John was enjoying a very rare occasion-a peaceful weekend morning in his bed. He was taking a walk at Chester Hall on a clear autumn day. Fallen leaves made crunchy noises underneath his shoes, and a fresh, crispy fall wind gently caressed his cheeks. And his favourite-the autumn sky, expanding its blue expanse to infinity.

Autumn was always his favourite season. John never knew why. But the sentimental atmosphere and its unique colours always made John excited. Is it because of its beautiful skies? Autumn skies were always painted with the same colour in John's dreams. Fresh, crispy, a blue with a hint of mystique in it.

Drunk from the relaxed atmosphere, John was satisfied down to his soul-until somebody breathed into his ears. John forced his eyes open.

"Who in fuck's name-"  
"Good morning, John."

Sherlock Holmes,**_ the _**Sherlock Holmes was sitting on John's waist and staring down at him. John felt his face was burning. He sat up, and Sherlock fell back due to the law of physics, but John paid no attention towards his fallen friend. He got a glimpse at his bedside clock. Seven forty-two in the morning. _Bloody hell._

"Sherlock... why? Are you hungry?"

Sherlock got up on his elbows and stared at John. He blinked for a little.

"I was conducting an experiment."

"What? What kind of?"

John, utterly startled, perused Sherlock's hands and himself. If Sherlock tried to use some kind of gross medication on him just like he did in Eton, John would beat Sherlock up for sure.

"Ways I can wake you up most effectively."

..._OH_. Reminding the fact that Sherlock just breathed into his ears, John felt his faces burn again. While analysing John, Sherlock noted.

"It seems that my selection is a very effective way, judging by your response."

John lost his words for a while. _Why on earth does Sherlock had to choose that particular way?_

"Did you consider other ways- no, it's better not spoken."

John was a little terrified to hear Sherlock's answers. He just hoped those ways weren't involving Sherlock pouring cold water on him or stuffing a tarantula up his pajamas. But Sherlock managed to answer John's questions, regardless of the fact that John decided not to hear it.

"Actually, one of the clips I viewed recently suggested that the most effective way of waking-"

Sherlock saw John's face fell, and he paused for a second-but that was it. Just a second. "-was sex."

_Why did he have to say that when I'm drinking? _John just **_had_** to spit out the water he was drinking onto the bedroom carpet, coughing dramatically.

"What's that clip?"

_If I figure out who made it, I will burn down the person who put such ideas into this idiot. _John muttered under his breath, but even his aggressiveness cannot keep his face turning red.

"Well..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes while looking down at John.

"Don't even think about using that on me."

John pushed Sherlock aside and got out of his bed. His knee felt wobbly. It was all because of that bloody Holmes. John still felt his face was much hotter than its usual temperature.

"No need to worry."

But Sherlock, on the other hand, decided to stay at John's bed. He crawled under the blanket and placed his head on the pillow. John recognised that the skin under Sherlock's eyes were darkening.

He prayed to God that the darkening wasn't due to sleeplessness... but John knew Sherlock all too well.

"Playing violin all night?"

Sherlock was quiet. Positive then. John sighed.

"Take a nap. I'll make you tea if you want."

"...Camomile."

John nodded. Sherlock dug into John's pillows. Turning his back and walking out of his room, John dove into his mind.

Sometimes Sherlock used to play the violin when something bothered him or his thoughts got too complex. All improvised, no scores or anything. Suffering from Sherlock over a decade, John developed an ability to interpret the 'improvisations'. Last night's music was, well, ...bothering, one might say. John cannot pinpoint the exact adjective he would use to describe the music, but it definitely made him worried.

Scratching at the back of his head, John went down the stairs to the kitchen. Pouring water into the kettle and igniting the stove, John rummaged through the shelves to find a box of camomile. He took a teabag and found Sherlock's favourite mug. It read:

**World's Best Master**

_What a wierd sense of linguistic taste,_ John thought. The water boiled, and the kettle shrieked noisily. John took the kettle and poured the steaming water into the mug. Feeling the sudden warmth on his hand, John was suddenly reminded of what Sherlock said before.

_- was sex._

_That crazy bastard._ John's face turned into a deep shade of scarlet, as if he was burning and letting off smoke. He kicked at the innocent kitchen sink out of embarrassment. But even suffering from the unexpected obscene remark, John carefully readjusted the tea's temperature by pouring a bit of cold water into the mug. The humid steam calmed down a little, and the tea became perfectly drinkable.

Bringing the mug with him, John mumbled in his mind.

_Always talking nonsense, making me worried... Really, what a nuisance._

_Then who am I, worrying that sociopathic brat?_

John paused in his way up the staircase, but he shook his head and brushed the thought aside. It made him no better, only a wee bit more stressed.

Opening the door to his bedroom, he saw Sherlock dozed off on his bed. John sighed. He wasn't even bothered. John didn't want to drink the tea, as it would make him drowsy. He decided to leave the tea on the bedside table, and took a seat next to the sleeping man.

John observed Sherlock. Quietly. Silky curls were strewn on his high cheekbones. The skin was white, so white even pale. Objectively speaking, Sherlock was quite attractive. Even gorgeous. There would be at least a bunch of girls craving for Sherlock at his uni. Even though considering the fact that the name 'Holmes' must have cast a glamour on Sherlock, the numbers were speaking themselves. His sassy attitudes, adjoining his cool, remote looks, must have caused a synergy. Sherlock was offending lots of people, but the numbers never dwindled but instead growing.

John sighed, not for the last time.

It would be a total waste of time if he spend this sunny Saturday morning observing Sherlock's face. John's eyes lingered on Sherlock's cheekbones a little longer, but he soon removed his attention, tugged at the blanket and carefully covered Sherlock with it. John got on his feet, and bent across Sherlock's face just to kiss his forehead.

"Good night, Sherlock."

It must be a cheeky thing, but Sherlock loved John kissing him good-night. After he watched the good-night kiss on a family movie, he asked John for the same thing, over and over for the past years. It must have been the summer vacation when they were twelve, the first time John kissed Sherlock good-night. When John stepped his one foot over the threshold, Sherlock, supposed to be sleeping, murmured in his low voice.

"You too, John."

John smiled subtly. _That baritone is definitely a chick-magnet. _Closing the door without a creak, John sighed again.

_What should I do now?_

* * *

**A/N**: Sorry for the prelude for being so long, but it's all planned out. Wait awhile, and a case is coming! A little spoiler: I plan this novel by three parts. Actually it would be seven counting prelude, two interludes and a postlude, but three parts entitled. The first would be... what do you think it would be?

Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please let me know if you want to correct anything(grammar, typo, idioms...).


	3. (1) Prelude-Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Seriously, if I've owned these characters, Sherlock would be porn already! Seriously!

**Notes: **I proofread my stories for several times even after I upload them... and I've spotted tons of typos. Please let me know if something is wrong. I cannot stand the idea of 'stroeng's or 'Shelrokc's in my story.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

1. Prelude-Chapter 3

When Sherlock woke up, John was typing busily on his laptop at the living room. John turned his head to a dragging noise of slippers, and he was able to find a disheveled Sherlock Holmes on his trip from the stairs into the living room.

"Up now, mate?"

Sherlock responded with a still-sleepy groan. John turned back to the laptop. Surfing the Internet wasn't a usual pastime for John, so he was enjoying the unusual feeling of actually 'surfing' on useless information and humourous images. Suddenly, John let out a short outcry of surprise.

Sherlock never failed to catch John's words(even if not words), and he asked John.

"What's it?"

John glanced over Sherlock. The sleepy eyes were gone-only fierce curiosity was burning in Sherlock's eyes.

"-One of the medical professors died in a crash."

Before John even finished his statement, Sherlock came behind John's back. At that moment, John breathed in shortly. Sherlock was leaning over John's shoulders looking into the laptop, and John muttered under his breath. _Oh, for the love of God..._

Sherlock's scent. Alpha scent. Too strong. It winded over John's body, awakening every senses and arousing them. John closed his eyes and bit down on his lips.

Even not for heat periods, a scent of an alpha was a deadly seduction for an omega. Especially a strong alpha like Sherlock, can make an omega writhing and begging with his scent only if he wants.

However, John, was able to hold himself back. Sherlock was his friend, a Holmes who would always reign over him. John never ventured the idea of ruining this relationship, so he oppressed so many emotions from time to time. But still John felt reproachful-

_Why are you, an alpha? And I, an omega?_

_Why are you Sherlock Holmes, and I, John Watson?_

_Why Sherlock, are you __**Sherlock**__?_

Naturally, the rueful emotions targeted at Sherlock came back towards John.

_Why am I, John Watson?_

John's forehead was crinkled into a deep crevice.

"...John?"

Sherlock's words brought him out of the abyss of his thoughts. John lifted his eyes, and Sherlock was in front of him.

"Isn't he, one of your professors?"

Professor Philip Vouille. He was the youngest of John's professors, which made him the most memorable. In his late thirties, the man with the sparkling blonde was considerably handsome. And, an alpha. John knew it too well.

Philip Vouille was an alpha with a great deal of self-esteem.

Usually alphas, especially the strong ones gazed at John in a wierd way. John never knew what it meant, but it definitely annoyed him. Sometimes John felt that, especially at Vouille's classroom. But John pushed those thoughts away, labeling them unnecessary. He never thought an alpha like him would be interested in John.

And he, was dead.

A feeling beyond description poured into his guts. He stared at the picture of the late professor.

**A Medical Professor Dies in a Tragic Accident**

The title, in bold words, was confidently sprawled across the laptop screen. Sherlock looked at John for a while, and suddenly closed the laptop, dropping it somewhere else.

"You don't have to care about it, John."

John was secretly surprised at Sherlock's action. Or, specifically, the hint of sweetness in Sherlock's voice. But Sherlock's face was still as ever, only his blue eyes staring at John intently. Sherlock opened his lips.

"I'm hungry. Something to eat?"

It was Sherlock's signal for lunch. While instinctively getting off the couch, John cannot take his thoughts off the shocking news. It is, it must be, a mere coincidence.

It wasn't common, that any of John's acquaintance met death deserving the attention on a newspaper article, even on Internet. Even though John tried to disposed it of as a mere serendipity, he still cannot ignore the unknown anxiety pooling up inside his chest.

Then suddenly, John realized. He turned to Sherlock, who was walking towards the window.

"How did you know, that he was my professor?"

Sherlock turned to John. His pale skin was shining from the sunlight pouring through the windows.

"I saw your schedules when I visited your student office."

Yes, Sherlock was a genius. One who never let anything go by uncaptured.

"...And he, **_looked_** at you."

John thought Sherlock's words suspicious, but Sherlock merely threw himself into the armchair and composed his usual position. John shook his head and decided to head for kitchen. _Omelette might do the work._

While, Sherlock's eyes were tenaciously following him.

~oOo~

The fill-in for Vouille was a young man. As young as Vouille.

"My name is Dennis Farrow."

He was a beta, for John's sake.

John was relieved that he now don't have to bother of that wierd gaze Philip Vouille was sending him. While he was busying himself by pulling the laptop out of the bag and preparing for class, John heard a clicking noise next to him. John glanced towards the noise without thinking.

"...Sherlock?"

If John's sight wasn't impaired, the pale, slim man wearing a hoodie and holding a pen was definitely Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what are you doing-"

Sherlock shushed him. He_ bloody_ shushed him. John tried to protest, but decided otherwise and turned to the new professor instead.

"We will start at the chapter, Cell Cycles and Cell Division."

Farrow projected his slides onto the screen at the front of the classroom. John hastily opened his laptop and started to type. The next moment, Sherlock was right next to him, whispering into his ears.

"Something is wrong."

John bit down on his lips._ Is he now sabotaging my classes?_

"What... is wrong, Sherlock? What about your class?"

Sherlock, now totally indifferent of John's words, were still staring at the professor. John sighed. Not for the last time.

"He is, a beta, right-?"

Sherlock asked. John, his hands busily moving over the keyboards, frowned a little and glared at Sherlock.

"What's the bother? Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I have to."

Sherlock tapped on the desk.

"Because I said so to the college board."

_What?_

"A taken occupation is not easily disturbed, but finding a new one could be,"

Of course, Sherlock must have sought out anyone out of the numerous Holmses reigning over the medical field for help. John was so startled that his words came out in fragments.

"What, what- How did you- What did you do?"

Sherlock looked at John as if he was asking him the evident.

"Isn't it obvious?"

John stared into Sherlock's eyes for a while. Those blue eyes, as usual, were screaming _fuck everybody I'm Sherlock Holmes_. Suddenly, John went through a déjà-vu. Those colours, those pale blue eyes- _I've seen it somewhere else._

Then John realised that he was committed to a perfectly useless thought, and he readjusted his attention to the black cursor blinking on his laptop screen. Professor Farrow was projecting the picture of a spindle body onto the screen. John tried to settle down his thoughts back to biology. _Spindle body. It appears at metaphase during mitosis._

Suddenly, a new thought dawned on John's mind.

_How come I wasn't able to recognise Sherlock was here?_

Usually, John knew the instant Sherlock stepped in. Even in a large room, during a party filled with alphas and omegas spurting off their pheromones all over the atmosphere. In his memory, Sherlock was just taking off his coat, but John just knew it at the time. John figured out the reason not so hardly. Sherlock was 'wearing' a beta scent.

As if he read John's thoughts, Sherlock, staring at the new professor, turned his eyes to John.

"Synthetic Beta, #5."

Then Sherlock returned his attention to the new man. John just gazed at him for a while-before he in fact, realized that he also have to pay his attention to the new man.

~oOo~

Since the day Sherlock disturbed John on his biology class, Sherlock seemed as if he cannot leave John alone for at least a second. Thanks to Sherlock, the throng of fan girls, stalking Sherlock, naturally started to follow John simultaneously. John couldn't care less of the fangirls after all the hassle he went through with them, but the annoying point wasn't their presence-but what they were talking about.

That day, John went to college library and flashed his student card to the librarian. He was confident of his anonymity until the librarian cast a wierd look on him.

"You're **_that_** John Watson."

"...What?"

But the librarian just nodded and looked at him weirdly the whole time John was returning the books. John knew nothing of it, but he wasn't able to cast off the awkwardness, until few hours later when he found out.

**The Youngest Holmes Finds His True Love- Of His Same Sex?**

At the shop where he dropped by to pick up some groceries, he came face-to-face with the most offensive tabloid he has ever saw. The cover was, to John's astonishment, the picture of Sherlock and himself sitting at the local café, sipping on coffee and chatting._ Paparazzi?_ No, it definitely came from the 'fangirls' who always followed them, judging by the blur photo apparently taken by a shaky smartphone. John turned to stone when he located the tabloid just next to the cashier.

Why. Why is this happening to him?

That day, he was able to understand what's it like to date a celebrity-at least, to be suspected of. If John was an attention freak, it must have been Christmas for him, but the problem was that John just wasn't. Especially when the news was just a rumour.

Almost out of his mind, John returned to the flat and threw the tabloid(John had to face an especially curious cashier when he put the magazine on the counter) to Sherlock's face.

"What on bloody earth is this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock, stilled for a minute, lifted his eyes and looked at John. John was fuming. Sherlock opened his mouth.

"You had a cup of rooibos this morning as usual, took your classes and had lunch at Gigs Fish&Chips at Tottenham Street. After the meal, you spotted Perugino Coffee House right next to the place and you thought you could use some caffeine. You fancied a cup, went to college library and returned the books you were wasting your time on. Then you dropped off at a store on Marylebone Road, was shopping for groceries when you found it?"

And then he shut up. John gaped a little. He wanted to ask how did he figured out all those things, but his anger won over curiosity.

"I wasn't asking for that. Did you know, that this kind of rumour was out there?"

Sherlock stared at John for a while. And then he nodded.

John hurled the grocery bag away and buried his face into his hands. He felt like a total idiot. Sherlock, even the oh so perfect sociopath managed to know this- and John was the only person in the Greater London who did not knew about this till now. He was walking the streets, totally ignorant of what people talked about him.

Sherlock, still staring at John, spoke bluntly.

"Why do you have to care, unless if it's true? Ignore them, John."

John, mysteriously offended, knew Sherlock was right. He was always right. And then he spoke again.

"But John, what's for dinner?"

John sighed and laughed. Yeah, this is the usual Sherlock.

Picking up the groceries he hurled on the floor, John thought on his way to the kitchen.

_Would I still be enraged if this was true?_

~oOo~

John came down to the streets precisely at seven, as his usual routine. He jogged every morning, as John was a man taking care of his health unlike a certain scrawny sociopath. The cold morning air brushed against his face. John reached his ear phones and plugged it inside his ears.

Armin van Buuren. He was one of his favourites. The start was calm and composed. Then a violin came in, its charming melodies making his blood run fast and his heart pounding. Just like Sherlock's violin. Perhaps that could be the reason why John fancied this particular track among Armin's singles.

The violin died away, and the beats came in. John started to run. He loved running to this track. The beats, getting faster and more intense, was a fine workout track. Also the elating electronics never failed to help John get rid of unnecessary thoughts.

But today seemed to be an exception. Even Armin's track cannot block John's thoughts from drifting to that disgraceful tabloid. That tabloid, was just, so...

_- Why do you have to care, unless if it's true?_

Sherlock was always right. It made John a little sad- so he ran. The London air grazed against his face. After he ran for minutes, he spotted a familiar face.

_Professor Farrow?_

"Professor."

Farrow, who was dealing with his packages, turned to John and made an uncertain expression.

"Excuse me, but who...?

John removed his earphones and smiled at Farrow.

"John Watson, from UCL medical school. I'm in your class."

Farrow nodded, slowly. He laughed, a little embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. My memory isn't the brightest..."

John saw what Farrow was doing. _Brown parcels. Moving, perhaps?_

"New in town?"

John asked. Farrow nodded then groaned.

"I was working at the states... but UCL recruited me quite urgently, and I haven't had much time to move. These are from my previous job..."

John picked up one of the parcels. Farrow nodded in appreciation.

"Thanks a lot. So, you live around?"

John nodded. Farrow acted completely normal around him... apparently, he was new in town and wasn't able to catch up the gossips about him and Sherlock. That fact alone made John feel much comfortable around Farrow.

After they finished moving the parcels into his flat, Farrow beckoned to John.

"You helped me, so I should treat you a cuppa."

John checked the time. 8 o' clock. It was Saturday, but Sherlock must be up now and waiting for John's tea. Still, John didn't want to turn down a professor's offer. _Anyway, this man is in charge of my grades._

"Thanks. Just a cuppa..."

Farrow nodded.

~oOo~

"What kind of man was Philip Vouille?"

Handing a steaming cup over to John, Farrow asked out of nowhere. John crooked his eyebrows, and Farrow smiled awkwardly.

"Sorry if I surprised you. I was in the states for so long, so I totally forgot British manners or British anything. Actually, you're the first British I've chatted with this long since my arrival."

John nodded. Farrow continued.

"So... Of course, gossiping about the late isn't the most civil thing to do... But my employers were quite obsessed with the fact that I'm a beta. They even took my blood to confirm it through a test... I figured that must be something, due to Vouille."

John cracked up in his mind. Of course, that was Sherlock written all over.

"Well... I've been in his class for a couple of months, so I'm not so sure about him."

"Right. So he wasn't a beta?"

Farrow took a sip from his cup. John nodded.

"Yes. An alpha. A very confident one."

"So that's why..."

The flat was quiet for a while. Farrow took another sip, and John asked Farrow just to break the silence.

"Excuse me, but how did you apply for this job? Usually they use temporary lecturers for these kind of sudden replacements... But it seems to me that you're taking over as a full-time professor."

Farrow nodded in understanding.

"I doubted too, actually. But my old friend contacted me. Have you ever known Mycroft Holmes?"

John almost dared to spit out the tea he just drank. _Holy crap._

"...Yes."

It was a problem that he knew him so well. Suddenly, he reminded of Mycroft, always looking at John as if he was a monkey behind the cage bar. As much as John knew, he was occupying a 'minor' position at the government.

_But why would he bother, about a professor recruit? Wasn't his primary interests were wars, elections or any other diplomatic schemes?_

"I always hoped to return back to my home town, but decent jobs were always unavailable. Then Mycroft called me at a quite remarkable timing. He told me about this job... And he said he know well of the person in charge. I had no reason to refuse, so I applied, then men in black suits came up to me and asked for a blood sample. They told me they were sent from the UCL. I was very embarrassed, but they were justified with IDs and all... so I gave the sample. It's not like I'm on drugs or so."

Farrow ended with a hearty laugh. John smiled back, but his brain was busy processing the information.

It was obvious that Sherlock reached for Mycroft when he interrupted the new recruit. Mycroft was powered enough to run a background check on the new candidates, so that must have been the reason. The 'men in black suits' in Farrow's story must have been Mycroft's men, not college staffs...

So Sherlock wanted to be sure about this new professor.

John felt a vibration in his pocket. A text.

Where are you? -SH

John quickly emerged from the stool he was sitting on. The tea was already cold, so he gulped it down and saluted Farrow.

"Thanks for the tea. I have to go now..."

"No, I'm glad. Thanks for your help."

Farrow waved at him. Stepping out of his flat, John fell into thoughts. _Why Sherlock was so concerned about this thing?_

John took out his phone and quickly texted back.

Out for a walk. Back in a few mins. -JW

John plugged the earphones in, but music still wasn't helpful to calm his mind.

John unplugged them from his ears.

~oOo~

"Where have you been?"

Sherlock was squatted on the couch. His curls were wet, as if he just came out of shower. John almost tempted to brush at the curls, but he held himself back. Removing his iPod to the table, John shrugged.

"Told you. Usual jogging."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes to John.

"I smell black tea. (_How does that bastard always manage to do that?_ John thought) A teabag, Tetley's. You will not bother to stop for a tea on your own while on a jog, cause you can make yourself a cuppa back at the flat... So somebody invited you for tea. You met somebody you know- who was it?"

John stood quietly for a while. Sherlock was staring at him, making it quite clear that he won't let John go till he gets the truth.

It was quite a petty thing, for sure, but somehow John got the idea that he had tea with Farrow. He did not knew the reason. _Just instinctively_, John thought. If he said he had a cuppa with Farrow, then Sherlock would definitely nag John till he finds out what they talked about over tea.

So John decided to take a detour around the real story.

"I ran into an old friend, while jogging. He invited me into tea- so I had a cuppa."

It wasn't really a lie, as Farrow could be categorized into 'an old friend' despite a little challenge. But Sherlock was still dubious. However, he soon removed his attention from John.

"Rooibos. No teabag, loose tea."

John nodded.

"And a club sandwich. I want something not so heavy for breakfast..."

And then he flopped onto the couch, apparently diving into his mind palace. John stepped into the kitchen, locating the kettle and set off in a quest for a can of rooibos.

Waiting for the water to boil, John pondered.

_Sherlock is being all secret, anyway, so it might not be a big problem that I won't tell him about this._

Then he realised, that he held something from Sherlock for the first time in his life. But another thought followed- no, it wasn't.

It wasn't the first time John held something for Sherlock- it was a long time ago.

* * *

**A/N: **As I, am not British nor a London resident, my knowledge about British uni systems and London geography is very limited. Those places Sherlock muttered about are real, but who knows? So if you want to be picky about details, please, **please** point out. I'm a detail freak, and I cannot stand if anything is wrong.

**Footnote-1: **The track John was listening to while jogging was Intense by Armin van Buuren. He's one of my favourite artists... and I was digging that track when I first thought of that scene. 'bout the violin thing, don't you agree? I feel my heart race up every time I listen to it. You should really look that track up. Armin's Trance is just epic.

**Footnote-2: **As I am a detail freak, I usually seek somebody from real life to model my OCs, usually Hollywood actors. I wrote professor Dennis Farrow based on Mark Ruffalo... I love him so much. Think about it. Won't it work out lovely? :D


	4. (2) A Scandal In Manhattan-Chapter 1

**Disclaimers: **I tried to own the characters, but they rejected me. Apparently they hoped to keep their relationship secret, as Sherlock deduced that I would definitely make a porn out of them. Which is true, by the way. A bugger :P

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

2. A Scandal in Manhattan

Chapter 1: The Scandal

~oOo~

John vaguely knew it would happen. But he was unprepared, careless, and distracted.

Everything meant it to happen- perhaps it could have been written in the stars. But apparently, John realised that he was stupid enough to be incapable of anything. He wasn't Sherlock, and the signs were invisible to him.

And that happened.

Sherlock let out a lamenting sigh.

"Irene Adler."

The woman looked down at Sherlock, a glimpse of hauteur in her eyes. Sherlock was sprawled across the floor next to her stiletto heels.

In order to understand what happened, a little time-travel might help.

It all started at Mycroft. He was one of those people who knew so well that Sherlock is mad for complicated puzzles. So Mycroft sent an unnamed e-mail to Sherlock, reasoned with a consultation request. John still remembered the time when Sherlock received the mail.

- Mycroft sent me this.

Sherlock said so, so John observed the mail.

**Title: A case of Blackmail**

_1. Suspect: Irene Adler(F, 25, Beta) - Occupy: Dancer_ _2. Details: The victim(Note: should be anonymous), was one of the suspect's various lovers. He poured everything into chaperoning and treating the suspect with utmost care. However, his interest waned, and while he seeks for a viable candidate for his spouse, the suspect insisted the victim not to leave her. The suspect threatened the victim of releasing obscene photographs of the victim into the press taken in company with her._ _3. Requirements: Retrieval of the photographs_ _4. Compensation: Decide after the case is closed, in concurrence_

_Attached files: Irene_Adler_

- He thought this would be a suitable brain-picker for me.

Mycroft was notorious of challenging Sherlock since they were just a little kid. He used to give Sherlock puzzles he found from wherever, just to jest at Sherlock in case he failed. But Mycroft was never given such a chance.

After reading the mail, John carefully remarked.

- This is... about real people, Sherlock. It's not a mere puzzle.

But Sherlock, with his always immovable expression, stared back at John.

- So? How come that matter?

John fought to find the appropriate answer.

- Well... It's not just a puzzle... but actual people, actual lives are involved.

- Dull. Not relevant to me.

John felt as if somebody sent an electric current through his chest. A piercing pain.

_Am I one of those 'not relevant' to you, Sherlock?_

John wanted to ask, but he was afraid of Sherlock's answers. He decided to shut up and bite down on the pain. As his usual. Sherlock downloaded the attachments of the e-mail. A file about Irene Adler, listing up things even which John might consider evasion of privacy. Sherlock read the mail with a burning desire of curiosity, and John looked at Sherlock, feeling as puzzled as ever.

~oOo~

_Rosemary helps one to think, they said._

John chose rosemary on purpose. Sure, Sherlock won't need this kind of help, but John hoped he could assist him at least for a little. Holding up the tea John made him in front of his chin, Sherlock perched on the couch and glared at his laptop as if it was his prey.

- The victim must be a socially achieved man.

Sherlock started. John opened his laptop and started to work on his report. But at the very moment John started typing, Sherlock looked at John with disappointment.

- Why?

- You're, not going to listen to my words?

John smirked a little. Sherlock's expressions-if he knew John what was John thinking of, he would kill him-were almost adorable. Then John abhorred at himself. _Sherlock, cute? No way._ Finally John closed his laptop and removed it from his lap. Sure, his report could wait for a while. The deadline was Wednesday, so John could use some free time later.

- Tell me. Why do you think so?

Sherlock continued the instant John asked him.

- Look closer. It explains itself.

Sherlock pushed his laptop in John's way. John bent over to read the mail. Not sure. John read the 'details' part again- and then it hit him.

- 'The press'.

John lifted his eyes just to look at Sherlock. Sherlock beamed at him- like if John was a school boy with A grades, and Sherlock was his mother. John felt abashed, lowered his eyes back to the laptop.

- That's right. The press will not be interested in photos of an everyday man, say, Robert Connary, a London residence. Who would, even? Less an exciting murder would deserve more attention, and the press live on attention. So, John, who would be this 'victim'?

John tilted his head a little.

- Wasn't he 'anonymous'? - Worked it out. Mycroft sent me the client list of Irene Adler.

John stared blankly at the seemingly never-ending list of names, which Sherlock pushed in his direction. Sherlock smiled at his wordless friend.

- Mycroft dared a jest on me. He perhaps wanted to know whether I was able to find it or not.

Sherlock typed on the keyboards, and suddenly certain words were readjusted in a certain pattern.

- He usually did this to me... especially during puzzles he used to frequent me with.

John stared at the screen. The newly adjusted words were-

'Victim Underneath'

- A simple scrabble. That old fox.

John chuckled at the scornful remark. Mycroft was barely five years older than Sherlock, but he always managed to insult his older brother on his age. John never bothered to correct Sherlock, as Mycroft seemed to be perfect for those words...

He moved his attention under Mycroft's message.

- Oh, my- What?

John gaped. He never thought this kind of man would be in such 'relationship' with a woman like Irene Adler.

- So, how are you going to do to retrieve the pictures?

After recovering from his shock at the victim's identity, John asked Sherlock, his voice trembling. Sherlock lifted his eyes to stare at John. John felt his heart leap a beat at the sight of a pair of pale, clean blue eyes, but it went back to its usual rhythm.

- We should find out who exactly, 'The Woman' is.

- 'The Woman'?

- Irene Adler's nickname, apparently. She's not one of the normalcy... a different one.

John felt a wierd anger clouding his brain at Sherlock's statement. He was not sure what it was all about, but he was sure that it was targeted to the unseen woman. John bit down hard on his lips, feeling the blood oozing out onto the skin.

He knew he was not allowed to feel that way.

- Okay. When are we going to hit the roads?

Sherlock leapt to his feet, no sooner than John finished his words.

- Right now.

- Now?

Sherlock put on his coat. John looked up at Sherlock, a look of flurry on his face. Sherlock almost turned the doorknob before he turned to John and asked.

- You not going?

John hastily stood up and put on his coat.

Secretly, he was happy that Sherlock asked for his company.

~oOo~

Before he stepped outside, John took his keys and locked the door. Sherlock was already on the streets halting a cab. When John turned and came down the stairs, he ran into a young man who was walking past between him and Sherlock.

- Excuse me.

His voice was high-pitched for a man. John looked directly at the strange man, whose blue eyes were acute and piercing. John suddenly felt a chill. Those eyes made him feel almost penetrated down to his soul. When John gathered his wits, the man was already past the corner. Sherlock came by him.

- What's the problem?

- No... nothing...

John felt his voice shaken. The stranger was a beta, but not a normal one. The eyes. Blue, not the pale blue of Sherlock, but blue like in blue of the Pacific Ocean. Deep, penetrating, giving goosebumps. John shook his head, stepping into the cab.

- Where are we going?

Sherlock answered with an idle voice.

- Adler's club.

- ...What?

- Club Sabrina. Private club for the highest. A high-end strip club, in other words. Not the comfiest place, I presume.

Then Sherlock looked at John.

- I need your help.

- ...Huh?

John was still stunned of the fact that he was headed to a strip club.

- You shall encounter with Irene Adler.

John was astonished.

- Why me?

- You'll know later on. You could debauch yourself for a time, can't you?

_GOD no._ John exclaimed in his head.

- I... should go?

- Why, John? You're a perfectly well-functioning male, aren't you? ...Huh, well, you should be careful of the others, though.

- What?

- A multitude of aroused alphas, John. You should be cautious, too.

John felt a mixture of feelings going through his mind. He looked up at Sherlock, who was maintaining the collar of his expensive coat up to his cheekbones. When Sherlock recognised John's look, he winked at him.

- Have some fun, John. Adler might be expecting us, so getting inside won't be much of a scuffle.

- Then... What about you?

John knew his voice was trembling.

- Poking around the place, some espionage.

John sighed and glanced out of the window. He heard Sherlock snicker. John briefly entertained the idea of a percuss at his friend, but finally settled on neglect.

He grumbled in his mind. _I'm going to a bloody strip club... oh god, mother._

When the cab got not so far, Sherlock stop and took off, grabbing John with him.

- It's here?

- No.

Sherlock dragged John into a store. John, still perturbed, passively followed Sherlock into an elegant yet gaiety shop.

- Monsieur Holmes-! It's been a while!

A middle-aged man walked towards them. Even the most indifferent people must have known that he was a skilled tailor at first look.

- A tailor...?

- Don't tell me you're planning to wear **_that_** to the club. Club Sabrina is for the wealthiest of England.

Sherlock's assertion was poignant, surveying John's clothing up and down.

- What's wrong with this?

John said with a disgruntled tone. Shirt, jeans, a black coat. Sherlock surveyed John for a little more, then drew his eyebrows together.

- Inappropriate. No. Chandler, will you take care of this gentleman?

The tailor approached John. He scrutinized the young omega, then glanced at Sherlock.

- Style?

- Incredibly posh, slight hue of sexiness.

John twitched his eyebrows, but Sherlock glanced away from him. Then spoke the tailor.

- Got it. Will be over just in time.

John was dragged into another room. He managed to step on a footboard the tailor pointed at.

-5 foot 8, 132 lbs, well-built, slightly athletic.

The tailor mused of his physical condition. Almost as good as Sherlock. John sent a look of admiration to the tailor.

- Great, mister...

- Chandler Tribbiani. Call me Chandler, monsieur Watson.

John cast a surprised look towards the tailor. He smiled at John.

- I worked 20 years for the Holmes family. It might be hard for me not to know about you. Sir Holmes and madame Victoria always talk about you, monsieur. For countless times.

John reminded of the beautiful pair, who always treated him like their son. The tailor took his tape measure and walked towards John.

- Monsieur Holmes already gave me your measurements, but I have to do this just in case.

Tribbiani murmured as he kept moving his tape measure around John's body. _When did that sly bastard got my measurements?_

But of course, Sherlock was Sherlock.

- Huh, great body, monsieur. You must be quite an athletic guy.

John nodded towards the tailor, who glanced up at him after he measured his legs.

- I was a captain at the hockey team at Eton. Played soccer continuously.

- You're a swimmer, too.

He walked around John, his keen eyes still plastered on John. The tailor intermittently went out of the room, apparently ordering his underlings about something. After some time elapsed, he finally smiled at John and spoke.

- Things are over. Basic tailoring is already finished. I needed to see you in person, just to narrow down the details and the style.

His keen eyes were flickering on and off, but his looks were not of loath, but even bridged on affection.

- Monsieur, you're a very... interesting model.

John looked at the tailor with no idea at all, but the tailor merely smiled back at him and snapped his fingers.

- Jennifer-?

John heard the clicking noise of heels behind him.

- Please, be a dear and style up this gentleman's hair.

John was flustered._ Even hair?_

- Our boutique offers full service, from hair to toes. That's the why madame Victoria always frequent our business.

Apparently the tailor was aware of John's fluster. John slowly nodded.

The brunette waved at John. Coming down from the footboard and walking towards her, he heard the tailor mumbling behind him.

- You're a man beyond imagine, monsieur Watson...

_What's that about?_

He thought, but soon Jennifer dragged him to another chamber and sat him down, sprayed and combed his hair. John felt his incredulous thoughts melt away through the busy hands ruffling with his hair.

~oOo~

- ...Oh.

John felt choked, letting out a short noise hardly a word. Jennifer and her assistants had hands of a creator-his hair was perfect. John did not know what they've done, but apparently their hairspray must have been a potion of stunning elegance. His ragged hairs were arranged into a wonderful posture of golden locks.

- Stunning, I might say.

Jennifer smiled in the mirror, her face right next to him. He felt her hands grazing his shoulders. John smiled back in appreciation. He thought her cheeks blushed for a second, but then her expressions were professional as ever.

- Follow me, mister Watson. Your suit is ready now.

_Already?_

Jennifer's assistants removed the white cloth covering him. John stood on his feet and followed the brunette, in the opposite direction of the chamber where Tribbiani measured him. Apparently, the room where Jennifer took him was kind of a fitting room.

The room barely contained two adults and a small stool, few hangers sticking out of the wall. There were two doors, each placed on the parallel sides of the room. The one on the opposite side, and the other one through which John came.

- Put these on.

Jennifer handed him two paper bags.

- Take off your clothes, and put them inside the empty bag. Your new clothes are in the other one. Mister Holmes mentioned that it might be a trouble carrying these with you, so our boutique would be taking a hold of it until your return. Your shoes are on the floor.

The bag contained a dress shirt, suits, even socks.

John thought Jennifer sent a flirty look at him just before she closed the door, but he ignored and started to take off his clothes.

The new clothing were definitely the finest. The dress shirt alone must have costed a week's salary... or more. John folded his shirt and jeans into the empty bag, and then slowly dressed his new clothes. The fabric felt fantastic on his skin, evidence of its quality.

The dark magenta dress shirt was made of silk, which felt almost like flowing water. Its colour and texture gave a lascivious feeling altogether. John blushed a little, but he slowly worked on the buttons.

The suit was a three-piece, perfectly equipped with a handkerchief. John marveled at the tie pin in a case. Sherlock really planned this through.

The vest was silver-grey, hugging around his waist with a perfectly fitting length. His jacket, a little darker, enveloped John's body with a fascinating convenience, which length stopped just above his hips. The perfect mixture of comfort and style, seasoned with quality and elegance.

His leather shoes were hand-made, stitches with perfect finishings. John grazed his fingers along the smooth leather, apparently no cheaper than the finest leathers. He placed his feet into the leather shoes.

His dressing session was finished by a wine-coloured tie and an amethyst tie pin. The magenta handkerchief was also made of silk.

After he completed the dress-up, John heard a knock on the door which he came through.

- Finished?

He recognised Jennifer's voice.

- Yes.

- May I open the door? I have something for you.

- Please, come in.

The door opened, and he saw Jennifer holding a black box. Suddenly, her professional expression fell into looks of awe.

- What is it?

She silently handed him the box. Her eyes were wide, lips slightly sagged. John smiled awkwardly towards her, but she was motionless.

Finally John had to close the door himself, despite the faux pas, then opened the box.

_Please, try this on. -SH_

Sherlock's handwriting was looking up at John from a luxurious piece of paper. John slid his fingertips on the paper, then folded it just to put it inside his trousers. Under the message was a profoundly lavish piece of watch.

John perfectly got the message- Sherlock was clearly an elaborate jerk. He couldn't help but smiled, then wore the watch on his left wrist.

A few minutes later, came again a knock. This time, the tailor.

- Finished your try-on, monsieur?

- Yes.

- Then, would you come out?

John turned the doorknob to open the door.

* * *

**A/N: **So, what do you think? Johnny apparently had been a homme fatale... wait till he step into the club. The party don't start till Johnny walks in ;) Well, I kind of dedicated this chapter to describe what Johnny would wear to the club. I initially planned this would be the point where Chapter 5 must end-but as I previously mentioned, I got tired :P

Stay tuned for 'The Woman', who generously agreed to grace my next chapter with her appearance. By the way, I truly believe Lara Pulver had done an excellent job on her portrayal of Irene Adler. Breathtaking, bewitching, yet not too crude. Just perfect. Love her so much.

I appreciate every review, no matter long or short, sweet or critical. :)

**Footnote: **Anyone recognised my minimal reference to an American TV show this chapter? ;) It was quite blatant. Just a joke. I'm a big fan of that show... watched reruns of that show, from the beginning to the very end, for 5 times. Seriously. I love that show. Let me know if you recognised.

**+) 03-02-2014: **Fused Chapters 4&5 together.


	5. (2) A Scandal In Manhattan-Chapter 2

**Disclaimers: **Come on, you know I don't own this.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

2. A Scandal in Manhattan

Chapter 2: The Woman

~oOo~

Sherlock was waiting for him outside. He was scrutinizing the boutique staff from his location-he must have already identified the species of their pets and whether their uncle have a cold-when he turned his eyes to John.

Sherlock's expression was somewhat... peculiar.

He stared at John silently for a long moment.

- A masterpiece, as I've expected.

The tailor sounded perfectly satisfied.

John smirked at the tailor. The staff paused in their way and stared at John's direction, but John couldn't care less. The most important thing at the time was Sherlock's reaction. But Sherlock simply glanced at the clock, came to John and snatched his wrist. John was utterly disappointed. Sherlock won't pay attention to him-even with high-end fashion.

- We don't have much time. Should hurry.

Sherlock whispered to John, only audible to the young omega. He saluted to the tailor, and then dragged John out to the streets.

- The club is not far from here. Only two streets away. A walkable distance...

Sherlock studied John's new look up and down. John was taken aback.

- It's that weird?

Sherlock gazed at John. His eyes were sparkling under the London sun. His gaze was intent, but his eyes still unreadable.

John felt Sherlock's attention crawling over his skin-_what would this mean?_

- Yes.

~oOo~

Unlike John's expectations, the club was very elegant from the outside. The Corinthian columns were supporting the entrance roof made of marble, which supposedly mimicked that of the Parthenon of Athens. The club's name was sprawled across on a chestnut brown sign, in an artistic, golden script. Doors were made of mahogany, polished well-sculpted into an art déco pattern, not in a showy sense but graceful.

- Find out the characteristics of Adler. The way she talks and sits. Her accent. The type of cigarette she smokes. She may not, but with a possibility of 82%, she will. No, 95%.

- Shouldn't you be the agent to find it out, Sherlock?

- It's all with a good reason, John.

Sherlock tapped at John's shoulders with his hands.

- You're the right man for it.

After a brief silence, Sherlock spoke, his words smooth and affectionate.

- I believe in you, John.

Sherlock's words unrolled a warm sensation in John's stomach, made his heart race. John blushed, and then nodded vigorously.

- Thank you, Sherlock.

Before John stepped into the club, Sherlock gazed at John for a while, and then extended his fingers to fasten the top button of John's shirt.

- It's suffocating.

John frowned, but Sherlock gave him a stern face. John shrugged and turned away from him.

Sherlock talked softly.

- Go get her, John.

John felt his confidence blooming out of nowhere.

He slowly trudged in direction of the club. John felt Sherlock was not moving, but he kept on his way. He pushed the black door engraved with patterns of ivy and grape vines with little strength. Behind the door was a man in a tuxedo, as if it was an haute restaurant. The man's professional smile soon faded into a dazed look when he glanced at John.

John decided to give the prepared lead-in a shot.

- I'm here for Miss Adler.

There were many advantages of staying with the Holmeses, and one of them was the acquiring of Queen's English. His living at Chester Hall and pricey education at Eton College changed John's accent into that of a nobility. With his first-classed fashion, John's appearance was perfectly fit for a high-born gentleman. Sherlock must have aimed at this. John thought the man must have taken in his classy looks, as he was able to see the man figuratively clicking into his professional yet servile mode. The club must have educated their staff of that attitude.

- She was expecting you.

_Just as Sherlock surmised._ The man turned, and then walked into the corridor to his right. John followed him with a dignifiedwalk with no shallowness-one more advantage of being a Holmes feodary. The clerk walked down a narrow corridor with lots of doors to its side, then turned left. John gradually followed the man. A booming music was barely audible from John's location, but it was getting louder. John followed the man down the stairs, and then found a door. It was almost the same as the one at the entrance, but a little smaller.

The clerk opened the door.

The place was no more, no less than a strip club.

The heavy atmosphere contained mixed scents of countless alphas and omegas.

Scarlet lights glowed on the skins. Men sat on velvety couches with women on their laps, whose movements were flowing, a strangely addictive mixture of obscenity and grace. John was able to recognise some of the customers. Actors, singers, even politicians, mostly celebrities who frequent the Holmes manor. He decided to remember their faces well. They won't recognise John, anyway. He was the shadow of Sherlock, a so-too-common houseboy of the Holmes.

A cross-shaped stage was placed at the opposite of the entrance. Five poles were on the stage, one on the intersection of the cross and four on the adjoining sections. Women were dancing on the stage, the curves of their body flowing, almost naked.

But there was a striking difference from other clubs- red veils were covering their skins. Their bodies were exposed on and off, which even arouses one even more than totally naked. Every time they stretched their legs or swung around the poles, the veils flew through the air, creating a dreamy scene.

Even John stuck out his tongue and wetted his lips, but he soon shifted his attention to his original purpose. And the next moment, John was forced to realise that every single one in the club was staring at himself.

They were looking at John. Men. Women. Alphas. Omegas.

The dancers even paused in their routine to stare at him. The customers stopped drinking and put down the glass.

John was unable to know why. It was never expected, and he was embarrassed. John believed that Sherlock sent him just to avoid attention-which was apparently the exact opposite of the current situation. He avoided the sticky looks. It was bothering. It was the feeling Philip Vouille sent him every time John stepped into his classroom. The feeling was an abyss, a darkness which could capture him for eternity if John gives in.

The atmosphere was coated with thick silence, only the breathy vocals of a female singer rocking the speakers. Everybody was looking at John, and he was trying his best to avoid the looks and paid his attention to the clerk's back. A woman walked past John, her shoulders brushing against his. John glanced back, which the woman responded back with a seductive smirk.

She winked at John, but John turned his head.

There was only one soul whose attention John would appreciate of... whose attention was not his.

John walked past the main hall, feeling the minutes were stretched into days. Finally he reached a quiet hallway, at where he walked down for few minutes then met a big, red door.

- Miss Adler is waiting for you inside, mister. Have a good time.

The clerk bowed at John then disappeared back into the hallway. John hesitated in front of the scarlet door. He did not know who Irene Adler was, and he was not sure he would be able to produce a deduction as half as good as Sherlock.

_- I believe in you, John._

But Sherlock trusted him. John breathed deeply.

He extended his arms to open the door.

~oOo~

No sooner than he opened the door, he spotted a provocative woman wearing nothing but a scarlet négligé. She was sitting down and crossing her legs on a red velvet divan facing the door. Her legs were exposed, long, creamy white skin glinting now and again through the translucent fabric of the négligé.

- Welcome… Mr. Watson.

Breathy, erotic voice. She slowly rose from the divan. John gazed at her soundless walk towards himself. Her movements were beautiful and elegant-like dancing, but not like the dancers from the main hall. Her dance seduced not only a man's body but a man's soul, just as the dance of Salome or Mata Hari.** _(1)**

John knew the instant; she was trying to seduce him.

- I expected you to come.

John saw her eyes, keen, blue eyes. He was familiar of the colour. He knew he recognised it from somewhere else... but soon, her sensual touching down his neck cut through his thoughts.

- Who would have expected, that Sherlock Holmes had an omega by his side- an omega like you?

What is she talking about? Club Sabrina was getting weirder and weirder for John.

- You conceal it by ordinary clothes during the days. Under the shadows of the Holmes... But, with your clothes, your hair, your scent, stepping into a club, who can take their eyes off you?

Her tone shifted, from the initial seductive to the resentful and whispering of now.

- ...What are you talking about?

John slowly asked. Her fingers trailed down his chest then reached the buttons of his jacket, provocatively working on it. But John was not moved. He stayed alert against the woman who was slowly walking around him, with an impressed look.

- Oh, you don't know about it at all, John Watson.

Her voice was now with a smile. John never let his guard down at her. Her blue eyes were still gleaming at him with a sense of danger. Not a blue like Sherlock's azure, but a blue more of a cyan. John carefully recorded information about Adler, all for Sherlock.

- You are a man of honesty, a man of pride.

Her fingers finished his jacket buttons. John did not remove his attention from her movements, every single one of them. Her movements were sensuous and arousing, but John's face was far from an enticer's victim; more of a soldier on war.

- Full of confidence, but not arrogant, a man with a shining soul.

She walked back in front of him. John's eyes were still keen. She stepped closer towards him. Her scents hugged around him. _Beta. She was a beta_. Adler, as if he was her lover, put her arms around his necks.

- You're no Holmesean shadow. You're their gun dog. Guard. No, a guard shall stay out in the cold, an expendable. You, are their knight, moving with dignified steps to guard the king.

- In L-shaped movements, you say?

John spoke jokingly. Adler smiled, and then continued.

- Everybody wants it... don't they? They want your honest, your pride, soul, your oh so beautiful soul, take it, possess it. They want to draw a picture on your beautiful, untainted paper. They want to possess your pride and see it only bend over for them.

John just had to smirk at her last statement.

- Mind the double entendre.

Adler laughed.

- Good sense of humour… John, oh John, do you really think people take no interest in you?

John frowned. It was getting harder and harder for him to take a grasp of this conversation.

- Don't girls follow you at the campus?

- They're not after me, but for Sherlock.

- Oh God, you don't know anything.

Her lips came right next to his. He felt her breath on his skin.

- They want you, John Watson; don't think they want Sherlock Holmes. He is boring besides you. Everybody wants your scent, so fascinating almost tasteable, almost tangible, so delicious, and take your body, oh your perfect body.

She slid one hand down John's abdomen.

- Raid it, possess it, and guard it with their life, unless they can't have you.

Any other lad he must have taken her flowing locks in one hand then clash their lips together. No, the lad must be kneeling down at her feet, begging for her affection and her kiss. But John was no other lad. Adler continued, now her lips whispering directly into his ears- but John did not even shudder.

- Why don't you kiss me?

Her long eyelashes fluttered, and then her hands removed his jacket. She caressed her fingers over John's vest. He was unmoved.

- Why aren't you seduced by me, John Watson?

John did not break his gaze at her. His hands were curled into fists. John was thinking of punching Adler-he knew hitting a lady was not of chivalry, but he was frustrated and also angry. Then she gasped then stepped back.

- Oh.

He saw her eyes glittering in a strange way. Something was wrong. Something.

- You're…

She extended her fingers toward him. John bared his teeth.

- John, you're-

- Stop talking.

John growled aggressively, but Adler was smiling instead of intimidated. His threaten was incapable of stopping her words.

- You're in love.

* * *

**A/N: **So... Do you liked the portrayal of the new Irene Adler? It's different from the BBC, it's different from the canon, yet altogether same. I really hoped you guys would love the fascinating looks of our dear Johnny and his indifferent traits. Lovely, isn't it?

**Footnote_(1): **The Salome here is the character from Oscar Wilde's _Salome, _originally derived from the New Testament. She was the daughter of King Herod II, with desirable beauty and astonishing dancing skills. Her dance is depicted in the bible as well(though still debated whether she was the dancer), identified as the _Dance of the Seven Veils_. Mata Hari was an icon of femme fatale, active during the early 20th century. She was a famous erotic dancer in Paris, who kept intimate relationships with high-ranking politicians and millionaires. She was later revealed as a double agent during the World War I and was executed, however the truth is still under controversy. If you want to know more about them, you could just google their names.


	6. (2) A Scandal In Manhattan-Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **If I own these characters-do you think I'll still be writing fanfictions and crave at their tumblr pictures? Hell no.

**Notes: **There are some things on this chapter which I suspected will need some explanation. **_(1)** means that there's a footnote at the bottom of the page. You don't have to bother yourself reading it, but I placed it there just in case.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

2. A Scandal in Manhattan

Chapter 3: The First Encounter

~oOo~

John's sight was reddened with great anger. Irene Adler was smirking as if she was watching the funniest comedy show of all time. John growled, his voice burning with exasperation.

- You, don't have the right to read my mind, Irene Adler.

_You don't have the right to laugh at me. You cannot look into my heart._

- When did a mere observation become mind-reading?

She spoke jestfully. Veins popped out of John's fists. Finally Adler turned around, John's jacket in her hand. John scornfully watched Adler returning to the divan with steps as light as feather. She leaned against on the armrest. John spoke.

- I'm not here as your customer. And for most of all, I cannot understand a word you said. I'm not here to be read by you.

- As long as you're in my club, you're under my reign.

Her voice was more soft, her gaze too. Curiosity and excitement made her eye curved into crescent. John bit down on his lips.

- Okay, you want me to play along? I will.

John's voice was trembling with rage. He stomped towards the divan, then enclosed Adler with his arms. Adler looked up at him. Her expression was secure, but her eyes spoke different. John down at her with cold eyes. The scent of her perfume. The aroma seemed to cover the whole chamber. It was bothering John's olfactory nerves since he came into the room.

- Seduce me, Irene Adler. Show me your capability. Show me you're qualified to read me.

The instant John finished his words, Adler grasped John by his shirt collar. She pushed John onto the divan, his back against the armrest, then climbed on his laps. Every time she moved, her fascinating silhouette flashed through the loose fabric of négligé. Her eyes were intent. Beautiful. Ocean blue eyes sparkled with pleasure and excitement. Her hands seemed that it's about to tear down the buttons of John's vest. And then, she stopped suddenly.

- No, I cannot seduce you John, but…

Adler leaned towards him, whispering directly into his ears.

- But, I still can read you.

Her right arm winded around his left arm, her lips against his nape. As if they were performing a foreplay. Then she started to whisper.

- Your accent. You have an aristocratic accent. Public school, one might say? You went to Eton, didn't you? Oh, all the Holmeses went to Eton. Sherlock must have been, too... They sent you with him, didn't they?

Her gaze traced upon John's face.

- You're an exemplar student. You don't want to challenge authorities. Perhaps you were one of the most loved students of Eton. You love to help others. Weren't you popular among your peers? You must have been the member of Eton society. You, were also one of the best achieved students by grades. You could have been a King's Scholar, but the Holmeses must have promised you of all the expenses. You love to help others, and you're smart as hell. So it must have been an ipso facto that you applied for the medical school.

Adler's hands groped through John's shirt behind his back.

- Your muscles are developed throughout your body. Not all sports do that. Your muscles are strong but flexible- you were a swimmer. Swimming at Eton is not mandatory, but you still swam for 5 years at least. You took football for the Michaelmas half didn't you? Oh, look at your hand. You're a right-handed man-a polo player, yes, but you're actually a left-handed person**._(1)** You practiced using your right hand just to play the polo. Wanted to impress **_somebody_**, John?

Adler laughed, the sound wicked but beautiful. Her hands never left John's body. John was stiff for a moment. Adler was as extraordinary as Sherlock, a brilliance. John was stiff from emotions mixed of awe and bewilderment. He was able to speak few minutes later.

- ...What do you want from me?

Adler smiled, then her fingers grazed along his cheeks.

- I want your heart, but I don't think that's possible... It's already taken, isn't it?

She laughed.

- Love is a dangerous emotion. Isn't it, John? You cannot do a single thing.

She knew everything. At that moment, John was able to remember where he saw her blue eyes initially. The young beta he ran into when John and Sherlock stepped out of their flat.

- You were that young man.

- Of course, John. I'm a dancer but also and actress... make-up as a man is hardly work for me. Of course my movie is not for theatres.

- Your life itself is a cinema.

John spoke. His words were still acuminous, but the scornful emotions were long gone. Adler knew it. She whispered in a and sweet voice.

- I don't want anything from you... At least, I hope for your help. But you're going to help me, anyway. You cannot leave a damsel in distress, can you? You're a hopeless gentleman.

Adler came down from his lap, then rested upon the opposite armrest. Her expression was that of a winner. John dared no challenge. He was already succumbed to her brilliance.

- Don't you have anything to ask me? Say... why did the people stared at you as if you were a piece of delicious treat?

John gazed at her instead of a spoken response. She smiled.

- I knew that. As I mentioned... You're a soul of honesty. Noble attributes and virtue are your best value. _'I canst not touch the freedom of your mind, with all my charms-'_

John was confused for a moment by a sudden poetry, but soon he understood then completed her words.

-_ 'although this corporal rind thou hast immanacled while Heaven sees good.'__**_(2)**_

Adler looked pleased.

- Look who paid attention to literature class.

- John Milton was one of my favourite authors... I had not known you enjoy literature, Miss Adler.

John said with courtesy. Adler was no normal femme fatale... She was a Lou Salomé, a Gala Dalí**._(3)** Men, especially the elites crave for her attention. Her provocative looks was only her shell; something far more magnificent and breathtaking was crawling beneath her skins.

- Just one of my numerous means of entertainment.

Adler lowered her eyes. Long eyelashes cast a shadow upon her eyes. The scene evoked an alluring atmosphere, but John was quite not startled. Soon she lifted her eyes then looked at John.

- That story, Comus, it's your life, John. You're the Lady**_(4)**. You never succumb to any forms of avarice... Even somebody presents you with a magic goblet containing pleasure and delight, you will not accept it.

Adler said, with a smile.

- You, even managed to turn me down.

- So you are the Comus?

- I act like a Comus, but I hope to be a Sabrina**_(5).**

John laughed. That's where the name of the club came from.

- Then why did you establish a strip club? If you want to be a Sabrina, won't one should not do such?

- John.

The end of her lips curled into a smirk. Her lip stick was red. Scarlet red.

- I am a human. Humans are complicated... they are equivocal, a twofold matter. So do I. Comus for a somebody, while a Sabrina for the other. I'm both. Comus is greedy and Sabrina is noble, but I cannot give up neither of them. Both of them, are me.

She paused for a second.

- The fact that you are in love, John, was actually my hunch. A man in love can identify the other. I'm a Lady for my inamorato. He's my Sabrina. He saved me from a quagmire... Unleashed me from a suffocating prison.

John was quiet. Her voice sounded truthful. Adler was still smiling. They looked at each other for a while, then Adler began to speak.

- Tell the Holmes boy, that I will not release the pictures to the press. I don't want anything, but I won't give them out, as it is my last frontier.

John captured the subtle horror hovering amidst her voice. He stayed quiet. He looked at her. She was as beautiful as a nymph-qualified of being the hostess of Club Sabrina. John stepped down from the divan, walked around the table in front of the divan to stand in front of her.

John smiled at Adler.

- Good bye, Irene.

Surprised at John's statement of her by her name, her eyes grew bigger. Still, she smiled.

- Good bye, John.

She lifted John's jacket, still in her hands.

- May I... keep this as a souvenir?

John laughed. He shook his head, as he didn't want to leave Sherlock's present. He reached out when she handed him the jacket with apparent hesitation in her movements. John turned then headed for the scarlet mahogany door through which he came in.

- John.

Irene called him. John paused en route, then turned.

- That suit... Your suit. It's very luxurious. Even some of my customers may not afford it. Whoever dressed you up like that, definitely knew it would match you perfectly.

Then she whispered gently.

- Somebody loves you.

John stared at her for a while, then he spoke.

- Irene, I may not be as fascinating as you think. But I know one thing-

He stared straight back at her glinting blue eyes.

- When I first bumped into you at Baker Street, I thought you were no common beta. That's right, you're not. You're an alpha wearing a beta.

Her confident expressions fell. John smiled.

- You know where to find me. Baker street, 221B.

He winked at Irene before he stepped out. She was able to move moments later the door was shut. She laughed. Irene whispered into the vacant air where once contained a John Watson.

- Oh John, you are much more fascinating than my thoughts.

~oOo~

When John finally managed to escape the thick atmosphere of Club Sabrina, he was able to find a cab waiting for him. John instinctively knew it was Sherlock. He opened the door, just to find a certain Holmes with a Belstaff coat up to his cheekbones.

- Get in, John.

Sherlock beckoned. John hastily stepped on the cab, which instantly took off.

- So, got anything?

Sherlock glanced at John. John smirked at his friend.

- I'll let you know back at the flat.

- Huh- got some exciting information, John?

Sherlock smiled at him. John laughed.

- How about you, Sherlock?

- Well, just be aware that I've inquired some interesting facts.

Then Sherlock leaned towards John. John thought his heart stopped beating, but then he realised Sherlock was just sniffing at Adler's perfume John took with himself. Sherlock stopped in his very position for a while, then spoke.

- An interesting choice. Espirit de Parfum. The top note is tube rose, the heart note is rose, then the base note is... almond?

John wasn't an expert in perfume, but he knew that getting that much information from a perfume was not a common capacity. He was perhaps the only person in the world who knew so much about Sherlock, but his deductions still fascinated him.

- Brilliant!

John yelped. Sherlock smirked at him.

- By the way, almond... never thought that would be a scent she would spray herself.

Sherlock frowned.

- Not an article for sale, perhaps a Privately Distributed one. A woman like Irene Adler would order herself a custom-made perfume. The scent must have been picked out by herself. Aroma of tube rose and rose is a perfect mixture for Irene Adler... but an almond?

His tone showed his exclamation and surprise against Adler. Irene Adler was the first woman who would bring out such tone from Sherlock, probably the last. Such tone was limited to only the most complicated and fascinating puzzles Sherlock faces with. Wierd emotions from few hours ago occupied John yet again, but he gulped them back.

He knew he was not allowed to feel that way.

The whole time they were headed to Baker Street, Sherlock was deeply divulged into his thoughts. John supposed that Irene Adler's perfume brought such thoughts to Sherlock; so she was a woman who can fascinate Sherlock just by her scent. John tried to push those thoughts away, and tried to settle down on facts such as they hadn't have anything for more than 5 hours. The streets of London was already darkening. _We did spent much time at the tailor shop and Club Sabrina_, John thought.

Suddenly warm food seemed quite provocative to the young omega.

- Hungry, John?

John glanced at Sherlock. He was still divulged into his mind palace, but somehow he read John's mind. Always a brilliant thing. John nodded. Sherlock hummed in back.

- Let's stop at Angelo's on our way.

Sherlock looked at John, so John nodded again. Sherlock leaned forward to give the cabbie the address of Angelo's. John turned his attention to the window. He heard Sherlock managing the collars of his coat. _What exactly Sherlock would be thinking of, right now?_ John was always curious of that, but nobody, even Mycroft, would acquire the exact answer for good.

~oOo~

Sherlock seemed to have a certain sense of affection towards the little Italian place. Since they moved into their flat, they visited the place quite often. It didn't take long till Angelo recognised their frequent dining at his restaurant.

Sherlock's favourite spot was the one by the window. He loved to scrutinize the people walking the streets; John sat there, listened to a tragic story of a blonde in twenties, or an exciting adventure of an archaeology professor. All deduced by Sherlock.

When the pair stepped into the restaurant, Angelo ran up to them, greeting them warmly, while simultaneously praising John's astonishing sense of fashion. The place was nearly empty, as it was well past the usual dinner time. But still, there were few women and men spread across the place. Their heads turned towards John, some whispering to each other, but John was too tired not to ignore them.

Angelo guided them to Sherlock's usual spot, and Sherlock ordered for both of them even before John threw his tired body on the chair. Surprisingly-or perhaps, not really-that was the exact menu John was craving for right now. John laughed at Sherlock.

- I don't know if I should be surprised or not, Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked at him.

- Well... I think it's quite late for you to be surprised, John.

John smirked.

- Tell me, Sherlock. What's the story today?

- Well-

He observed the random strangers for a few seconds, then pointed at a young man dressed in suits.

- That man is quite stressed at his work. He realised his boss is involved in a crime... say, embezzlement...

John listened to Sherlock carefully, nodding now and then, smiling and muttering "Brilliant" and "Fantastic".

~oOo~

Their dinner was almost over. Sherlock paused in his deductions and was paying attention to his pasta, when a man stopped by their table.

- John Watson!

The man exclaimed.

- Aren't you Sherlock Holmes? It's been a while! Isn't this our first time since Eton?

He sounded utterly happy to meet them. John lifted his head to take a good look at the man.

- ...Oh, right! Yeah, glad to meet you again!

John knew the man. He definitely knew him, and he knew that he was one of the Eton boys. The problem was-he just cannot recall his name.

- Came to London for uni?

- Yes. Uhm, UCL.

- Medical School, John?

- Uh-huh.

- Right. You always wanted to become a doctor.

He certainly was one of his friends, at least acquaintances if he even knew about that. John tried to remember his name, and hoped that the man would slip it any moment-but he just didn't. _Damn._

- So, what brings you here?

- Just for a bite. You two, dinner?

- Right.

- You two eat together? I knew you guys are close, but even after the graduation?

- Well, it's the usual, so...

John shrugged.

- Sherlock, what about a warm greeting?

The man nudged friendly towards Sherlock. Sherlock sent a not-so-welcoming glance to the man. John stretched his legs and stepped hardly on Sherlock's foot, so Sherlock frowned and blurted out.

- ...Long time no see.

The man laughed.

- What an honour, greeted by the Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock tried to say something, but John stepped on his foot again. So Sherlock went back to his food, and John decided to end this conversation before anything happens.

- It was nice meeting you.

- Of course, John. I really missed you. No calls or anything.

- Sorry... getting used to London.

_That close, calling each other?_ John thought.

- Call me later. Any other time. The man waved at him. John nodded, beckoning at him.

He still failed to remember his name. John sighed after the man took off. Sherlock, still frowning, opened his lips.

- He's interested in you.

- ...What?

- He was flirting with you the whole time, John.

- What-?

- John, he kept touching your shoulders the whole time he was speaking to you. Less his body language and his tone. Most of all, his pupils were wide blown every time he turned to look at you. Unrequited attention, for quite a long time.

- That can't be-

- He's not the first Etonian to be interested in you.

Sherlock gulped down his water. John gaped at him. Sherlock put down his glass then continued.

- And he showed hatred towards me.

- But he acted quite friendly towards you.

- Even when he was talking to me, he was facing you. His voice might been friendly, but not his eyes. Not common hatred. Quite blatant. Perhaps he felt jealous of me, as we're quite close.

Sherlock blurted out those words in a dry tone, as if he was stating the weather or something. John was still fascinated by his deduction skills, but this time it was quite bothering.

- Hatred? No, wait- There were boys interested me at Eton?

- More than a dozen, at least as I know.

His tone was still dry.

- Want to know? Harry Palmore, the one from Sweden, Gary Earnest- - Stop, Sherlock. Stop. I don't want to know.

John was wordless. Sherlock's expression was truthful- he wasn't joking. John dropped his head into his hand. Everything was just so puzzling. He went through a lot in such a short time today. The tailor shop, Club Sabrina, the looks, Irene Adler... and then Sherlock.

- Tired, John? Want to take off?

Sherlock's voice contained a subtle sense of worry. John looked at Sherlock. He suspected that his alpha friend was acting a little less-of-a-bastard towards him nowadays._ No, that's just bullshit._ John muttered in his brain.

But he was tired, and that was the truth.

- Yes...

- Then let's go.

Sherlock took his coat. John stood from the table, feeling exhausted. He just wanted to dive into his bed, snuggle into the cozy blanket.

They walked in silence for a while, until they reached Baker Street. John reached his pocket to find the key for the flat. That moment, he remembered the man whom he chatted with at Angelo's. His name was James. James Moriarty.

* * *

**A/N: **I was quite busy, but somehow managed to write this long... It was really exhausting :( So, it's the first encounter with one-who-may-not-be-named! haha Things are getting complicated, don't you think? ...You don't?

The _Comus _I continuously referenced to in this chapter is a masque by John Milton. I read it back in younger days, but I stumbled upon it few weeks ago. I read it again- and the story was a perfect demonstration of John! Really! If you're a literature kind of person, you should give it a try. It's on Project Guthenberg for free, so you don't have to buy it just to read it.

Oh, and somebody asked me about "why everyone was crazy at John at the Club just for his scent?" Well... the reason is going to unravel as the chapters proceed, but to lay it down just for a little, John do have a crazy scent. It's just that he is not used to let off his pheromones and people can't catch it that easy unless they pay attention to him. I designed this club to be the most provocative place on earth, so there are chemicals on the air to make the pheromones stronger and more seductive... So it just blow their minds when Johnny steps in. Hope it answers your question. :)

Thank you so much of your kind reviews.

Special thanks to Raeya, beemoh for your continuous support, kallester and JRLink for your kind words. ;) I really love you guys!

* * *

**Footnote_(1): **In BBC Sherlock, John is left-handed while he wear his watch on his left wrist and handle guns with his right hand. I derived my John's characteristic from that. So you can say this is quite legit in that sense. ;)

**Footnote_(2): **_Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind/ With all thy charms, although this corporal rind/ Thou hast immanacled while Heaven sees good. _ John Milton, __**Comus**_

**Footnote_(3): **Lou Salomé and Gala Dalí were both women who fascinated famous artists, musicians and authors at their time. They had not only striking beauty but also brilliant knowledge about various fields bridging from literature, music, art, philosophy and so much more. Lou Salomé fascinated a lot of men including Nietzsche, Freud, and Rilke-while Gala Dalí was the muse of Salvador Dalí and Paul Éluard, also inspired an array of writers and artists.

**Footnote_(4), (5): **The Lady, Comus and Sabrina are all characters from John Milton's _Comus. _'The Lady' is the characterisation of beauty and virtue, while Comus represents greed and physical pleasure. Comus, the sorcerer, tries to seduce The Lady but fails. Still The Lady is tied to the magic chair of Comus-when the nymph Sabrina, a celestial being, came down to rescue her from Comus' influence.


	7. (2) A Scandal In Manhattan-Chapter 4

**Disclaimers: **What would I do if I own Sherlock...? Right. Bring all the boys in and have a slash party.

**Notes: **I fused Chapters 1 and 2 together, so don't be surprised if the chapter numbers concern you ;)

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

2. A Scandal in Manhattan

Chapter 4: The Millionaire

~oOo~

James Moriarty. He was the boy from Eton, who tried strangely hard to get close to John. He was a smart one; his knowledge in medieval history, biology and chemistry was quite impressive. As much as John remembers, he always hoped John to call him Jim, but John rarely did.

James was very ambitious, came from a wealthy family at Dublin. When John was elected as the Eton Society, Jim sent him a ton of congratulations-one would suspect weird.

_...So he was interested in me, all that time?_

- John.

Sherlock's voice dragged him out of his thoughts. His alpha friend was staring at him from his armchair.

- We're back at the flat. You changed into your indoor sweater and trousers. Won't this be the best time to talk about Irene Adler?

John slowly nodded, while slurping into his chair facing Sherlock's.

- What do you want to know?

- Huh- I've already got information about her scent, so let's start at the accent.

- New Jersey. That alone is quite clear. I'm not knowledgeable in dialects of the world as much as you, but there's a lad from New Jersey in medical school.

- Impressive, John.

Sherlock mused, and John smiled. He wanted to say something back, but his tired mind screamed to 'just get it over with and go to bed'. John sighed and continued while his expression was soaked in fatigue.

- Cigarette. You said something about cigarettes? There was an ashtray at her room.

John took out a plastic bag from his trousers. He hurled the bag at Sherlock.

- I'm not capable of figuring out just by tobacco odours as you do-so I brought the evidence with me.

The moment John stepped into Adler's room, his attention never left the ashtray. One on the table in front of the divan, one made from crystal. John played along Adler's seduction just to get close to the ashtray. He stimulated her on purpose, which easily brought down her guard. When Adler climbed up on his lap, John succeeds stashing the cigarettes into his trousers.

Good thing he brought a plastic bag with him, just in case. All those bother, for Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled a cigarette from the bag.

- The types are varying... Presumably more than two must have left theirs.

Sherlock smelled the tobacco. He lifted one of them then circled it around.

- This one has lipstick on it. Is this the colour of Adler's, John?

The cigarette Sherlock was holding up displayed a clear colour of scarlet red. John nodded.

- Isn't indoor smoking illegal?

As John muttered, Sherlock sent back an incredulous look.

- You think Club Sabrina is under supervision? Even if you do drugs there, you won't be arrested.

It made sense. Perhaps more than one amongst Adler's lovers must be a policeman.

- Mostly Turkish tobacco, little bit of burley and bright Virginia. Ordinary tobacco... Ah, vapour. One from Eclipse. It produces less smoke when lit. Irene Adler must be a smoke-regarding woman, or her lover takes care of his lungs. Considering the fact that smoking itself is quite an unhealthy habit, it's an irony...

He put down the cigarette on the table. John frowned at the scene.

_I might need something to wrap it up._

John stood from his chair with a groan.

- There are chartulae on the kitchen table, John.

Sherlock read his mind again, not for the last time. John was able to locate the chartulae amidst the chaos on the kitchen table, brought some with him then wrapped it around the cigarette carefully. He hated making a mess.

- Hmm, Embassy Mild. An expensive brand. An ostentatious one must have smoked it. But not Adler's lover- Embassy is a popular brand in Britain, and even though he is of British ancestry, but this is not his... Yes, Cavendish! That's what I'm talking about. He loves scotch and cigars.

- Adler's lover does?

- Of course, John. What kind of cigarette do you think he will smoke?

John reminded of the name which Sherlock found through Mycroft's childish puzzle. He was definitely a cigar-and-scotch type of guy.

- Cigar.

- That's right.

Sherlock smirked.

- But he coerce Adler to smoke Eclipse. He's quite a dominant person; he must have been enraged after he found out Adler is an alpha, instead a beta.

He paused and looked at John.

- You knew that, didn't you, John?

John shrugged. Sherlock continued.

- She must have been trying to seduce you, which caused her pheromones to become thicker. Your senses are above average, so it wasn't too hard for you to find it out.

- Above average, what an honour.

John laughed, but it was vigorless from fatigue. Sherlock smiled back.

- Well, I have to say that I must have been a good influence on you.

John tried to answer, something with a joke. But his eyelids were too heavy. His lips were stuck. The air was too warm.

- John...?

He heard Sherlock. John tried to answer, but his words were trapped in his windpipe. Just before he slipped into his dreams, John thought he felt something soft against his forehead, soft as in soft as one's lips-but he interpreted it as merely a dream. He met Sherlock in his dreams. Under the beautiful autumn sky, Sherlock was all smiling and gorgeous and beautiful and waving at him. John ran towards his embrace. At least in his dreams, Sherlock hugged back at him.

~oOo~

Their investigation was moving along in an adequate speed, but their client must have been under pressure. It was no surprise when men in suits poured into Baker Street 221B when John finished his breakfast and reached for The Times. The leader of the suits was wearing sunglasses and a mask.

Mrs. Hudson guided him to the couch, glancing curiously around her. She turned to John and whispered at him.

- Who are all these gentlemen, John?

John thought for a while, and then settled for the simplest answer.

- Mycroft related matters.

- Oh, then I must not poke around it.

John saw her disappearing over the threshold in quite an impressive speed. Mycroft introduced himself as a 'minor government official' to Mrs. Hudson as the usual, but even the dullest boy John knew might see through it. Mycroft was merely in his twenties, but he already had authority to access surveillance on Sherlock.

_Who's he kidding with?_

Sherlock stuck his head out of his room, his robe swishing through the air. John nodded at Sherlock good morning.

- John, what's for breakfast- oh.

He saw the man sitting on the couch. Despite the sunglasses and the mask covering his face, the man was an overwhelming presence. His shoulders were broad, expensive coat lining his well-built features. Even John was able to presume that the suit under the coat must cost at least several hundred pounds. The stranger waved at his underlings, who disappeared over the threshold in mere seconds.

- Mister Holmes, it's an honour to meet you finally.

The voice was smooth but charismatic. The luxurious accent, a graceful tone and careful choice of words. It even made Sherlock civil, though the view was quite humourous as he was still in his pajamas.

- Mind my disguise. My client is very discreet about anything, as the issue is very intimate...

- I understand it.

- You must face this issue with your utmost care, Mister Holmes. I cannot provide you details, but my client is very close with the Royal family as well. The instant his identity is spilt to the press, incorrigible troubles will ensue.

The man's words were courteous but cold.

- I was aware of it, as well.

Sherlock's voice was dry. The stranger turned to John. Even though John cannot see through the dark glasses, he knew the man was staring at him.

- May you provide us some privacy, Mister-

- Watson. John Watson. I'm his, um, friend.

- Right, Mister Watson. Will you please be generous to-

John rose from his seat, but Sherlock caught his wrist and pushed him back to his chair. John looked at Sherlock, astonished.

- Sherlock?

- It is both, or none,

Sherlock's words were stern, stinging as a whip.

- You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.

The stranger looked at Sherlock and John for a while, considering the words. John blushed at Sherlock's still grip on his wrist.

- ...So you may say.

Finally the man shrugged and Sherlock let go of John's wrist. John coughed in embarrassment, then hid behind The Times. The stranger began.

- I believe you acquired basic information provided by your brother. Any proceed on the investigation?

- You're quite a man of a temper. I received the mail yesterday, and how much proceed you expect?

Sherlock was polite but icy. John was aware of Sherlock's usual tone, but the stranger seemed quite offended. Sherlock knew it, so he blurted out.

- Hadn't Mycroft aware you of my quirks?

John smirked behind the newspaper. Sherlock was definitely sneering. After awkward silence fell between them, John heard the man laughing.

- I was aware, but...

Sherlock started to stride around the sitting room in a slow pace. The man never tore his eyes from Sherlock. John felt this was a very gripping dialogue; _where's that bag of popcorn every time I need one?_

- I'm not your underling, Mister Wernheim. I don't need to kiss your smug arse.

John saw the stranger's-or, Wernheim's-arm goes stiff at Sherlock's words. Silence came back to the sitting room. Suddenly, the man started to laugh out loud. He lifted his hands to remove the mask and sunglasses.

- You are good, Mister Holmes.

- And you make a bad agent, Sir.

Sherlock made an icy remark. The man's looks were quite impressive. A convex forehead, sharp nose, and brazen, glowing blue eyes. He was a clear demonstration of a stereotypical high-born man. The man's features were more than good-looking-hell, he'd out-handsome those actors on telly. Something admirable was amidst his atmosphere, something from a lineage of the best families and the noblest bloods.

Yes, Timothy Wernheim Jr. was a man of such features. He was one of the wealthiest of Wall Street. He was of British descent, his father a knighted man and his paternal grandmother an esteemed daughter of the Duke of Somerset. The Wernheims married with the best families of England, including the Royal family.

- I never thought you were not aware of me.

- If you tried testing me, I dare say you failed.

Sherlock smiled coldly. John scrutinized the icy atmosphere between the two alphas.

- You're here anyway, may you spare your honourable time to sort out the details?

Sherlock was still slowly pacing, but now around the move less man. Wernheim stared back intently, meeting Sherlock's cold looks. Silence fell again, but finally the man spoke.

- I met Irene in New York. She was the head of the private club I used to frequent, a dancer. I was fascinated the moment I laid my eyes on her. I used my everything to make her mine.

Sherlock paused in his walk. He was posing his usual thinking position, his fingertips meeting in front of his lips. Sherlock's deduction was perfect. John was no psychic, but it was quite a blatant fact that Wernheim was a dominant man. There was something persistent hiding beneath his gentleman looks, a growling alpha, atrocious and inhumane but beautiful altogether.

John lamented at the fact that Sherlock read Wernheim like the back of his hand; _just through ashes of tobacco-!_

- What brought you to London?

- I came here to look over the second headquarter established in London. Irene came with me. She had to give up all her clubs due to moving.

- You met her about 5 years ago?

Wernheim looked at Sherlock, a look of awe in his eyes.

- She's 25 years old now, so she must have been twenty at the time. Just at the start of her career peak...

- Yes, Irene was as beautiful as a newly blooming flower.

His words set into a sentimental tone. John saw the man's eyes hovering into the air, reminiscing the past.

- 5 years went by, sweet and pleasurable. But-

Wernheim paused. He glanced at Sherlock.

- You already know what happened, Mister Holmes.

- Oh, of course.

Sherlock shifted in his stance, then started.

- Your interest waned. Irene Adler is too confident and smart to be your lifelong partner. Even your coerce never brought her down, not to mention the fact that she is an alpha. Of course she is wearing a beta, but you must have seeked it out. A pair of alphas cannot produce an offspring. She cannot be your spouse. You're, hmm, 34 years old? You need to settle down, at that age. She saw you through.

Wernheim gazed at Sherlock for a moment.

- She wanted to leave you before you abandon her, but you don't. YOU have to leave her, not Adler. Perhaps she found another lover? Nay, she DID find another lover. Things got complicated, as Adler must know more than she ought too- so she threatened you? With the pictures? You visited Club Sabrina yesterday, early in the morning. You told her you hired somebody to take back the pictures. She knew that would happen, but not so soon.

John was reminded of Adler's words.

_- I'm a Lady for my inamorato. He's my Sabrina. He saved me from a quagmire... Unleashed me from a suffocating prison._

Her Sabrina was no Wernheim, but another one. She was suffocated of Wernheim, utterly horrified of him.

- She was astonished. Adler never thought to release it into the press, really, because she wanted herself to avoid the trouble. The greyhound press would never let her go, less her new lover. She was getting impatient-so now she is going to do something dramatic. She cannot keep the pictures, but cannot give it away easily before she flee from your influences.

Wernheim was quiet the whole time, apparently pondering on Sherlock's words. He murmured in a low voice after a while.

- Then... I cannot get the pictures back?

Sherlock, standing by the window, turned quite theatrically to face Wernheim.

- I will bring them with me. Before the weekend.

John's eyes widened.

- This weekend?

Wernheim also seemed quite surprised.

- I failed five times. Two for sending men to her house, three for attacking her from outside. But all failed, Mister Holmes. Are you sure you can do it that fast?

- She is already in dilemma. Manipulating her is not that hard. I will get you the pictures before next Monday.

Sherlock said, confidently.

* * *

**A/N: **I really hope you like the story up until now. I believe things would get busy from now... My next chapter is definitely not going up tomorrow, less for another week or two. Even though the updates may be late, please, please keep in mind that I never let this story go. It's my first fic, after all :D

So, how do you think about that Wernheim man? I modeled him after Ralph Fiennes, as he perfectly matched my character of Wernheim. Romantic, looking astonishingly handsome, but something persistent altogether. You can see that from his filmography: hell, only two can show that. Schindler's List and English Patient. He was brilliant in both movies.

Let me know what you think. I adore reviews, short or long whatsoever. ;)

P.S. I'm kinda thinking of a pwp smut involving this couple... what would work? If you have any recommendations, PM me or leave it in the review ;)


	8. (2) A Scandal In Manhattan-Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Seriously, I don't own them. Can somebody tell me how to?

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

2. A Scandal in Manhattan

Chapter 5: The Ambush

~oOo~

After John successfully fed Sherlock his share of breakfast, he did the dishes and cleaned the table. Sherlock left his empty mug on the table to slurp into the couch. Wiping his wet hands on his apron, John trudged towards Sherlock.

- By the way, Sherlock- ...Why are you looking at me like that?

Sherlock was staring at him. A so-familiar-gaze.

- You want to know the truth?

- Of course.

- I was thinking that the apron looks good on you.

John almost blushed at Sherlock's words, but he cannot risk the possibility of getting deduced. Unveiling his emotions in front of a man like Sherlock was way too dangerous. John coughed his blush back and spoke.

- Um, the thing is... you said something about the pictures.

- Yes,

- What are you up to?

Sherlock sat up in his thinking position. His blue eyes were glowing with intent.

- A disguise.

John dazed for a while.

- A disguise?

- Irene Adler will be already aware of my appearances. She's not an idiot.

- You know where she left the pictures?

- Club Sabrina may have great security, but there's always a possibility there's a traitor among her dancers or staffs. Irene Adler cannot risk it. She cannot leave it somewhere secret, as she felt the need to keep it under her protection range... Adler cannot take it with her, which then Wernheim's men would have already robbed it from her. One place left, her home.

- The address is?

- Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood.

- Oh.

- So, John, I shall want your co-operation.

It wasn't his first time, helping Sherlock solving 'puzzles'. But this kind of problem? No. Their previous puzzles were mostly mere brain-pickers...

_But, for Sherlock._

- Hmm, I shall be delighted.

- You don't mind breaking the law?

- Not in the least.

- Nor running a chance of arrest?

- Not in a good cause.

- Oh, the cause is excellent!

- Then I am your man.

- I was sure that I might rely on you.

Sherlock seemed utterly pleased.

- But what is it you wish?

- Irene Adler finishes her tasks at the Club and retires to her residence at 7 o'clock. We should be waiting for her at Briony Lodge.

- What are your plans, then?

- Already sorted out.

Sherlock smirked. John dared not to ask.

-You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?

- I am to be neutral?

- Hmm... Okay. Whatever way the situation directs onto, I will end up in her house. About four to five minutes later, the sitting room window will be opened. Stay near the window.

- Clear.

- You may see me through the window. Set your attention on me, and when I you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?

- Perfectly.

Sherlock jumped into his room then returned with a small cylinder, then handed it to John.

- Just a smoke-rocket. It would smoke when you throw, when you will shout fire to gather a throng. Then wait me at the street corner.

- So I stand back and speculate, go near the window, get your signal then shout fire.

- Correct.

John nodded slowly. He wasn't so sure what Sherlock was on to, but he wholly believed in Sherlock. John stared at the cylinder on his palm. Strange tension slowly strained on his guts.

_Shall it be successful?_

Whatever happens, always for Sherlock.

Sherlock buried himself into the armchair, clicking into his usual thinking position.  
_When may I know what you're thinking about?_ John thought quietly.

~oOo~

John glanced at the watch when they arrived at Serpentine Avenue. It was ten minutes till seven. The sunset glow was slowly creeping along the sky, street lamps lighting up one by one. John took the moment and savoured the sight of Adler's abode.

Briony Lodge was a quiet and peaceful house, not so much like its owner. The garden seemed well taken care of, orderly pruned and well-watered.

- Rose bushes,

Sherlock muttered.

- Adler seems quite fond of the roses.

- Rose is the queen of all flora.

John mumbled. Sherlock glanced down at John.

- It matches her.

Rose. John reminded of his meeting with Adler. Her chamber was all rose-coloured. Drapes, carpet, bed, wall paper. Everything. And Irene Adler was sitting in the red divan, glowing in scarlet.

Beautiful as Sabrina, enticing as Comus.

- Whatever happens from now on, please count on me.

Sherlock requested. John looked into Sherlock's gaze. Bright, blue eyes were staring down at him.

Sherlock dressed himself as a clergyman just before they stepped out of the flat. Long black coat and roman collar did the work. But what brought John into aghast was not of the disguise, but the actual 'disguise'; his face, his actions, even down to the single movement, Sherlock played a clergyman. No, he _was_ a clergyman itself. A soul, dedicated to the God, pure and crested with virtue. For over two decades John knew Sherlock, but even John needed a second glance just to recognise Sherlock.

- The stage lost a fine actor, as you have no intent for the theatre.

Sherlock snorted at his comment, but John truly meant it anyway. His friend's acting was as brilliant as his deductions. Perhaps his observing skills have helped him. Sherlock had an ability to trace back a man's nature through even the tiniest details- the reproduction may allow him to reenact the nature itself.

John fell into his thoughts, while his eyes were sticked to a clergyman walking down the street. Sherlock turned briefly then winked at John. John smirked. He wanted to wink back, but anyone can take a notice. John chose to blend into the crowd, avoiding any attention.  
For a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. Men in ragged clothing were chattering on the corner, laughing out loud. Two young men were flirting with a pretty-ish girl. Several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down the streets.

It was a blast, when everything happened. An accident happened on the road, seemingly the cab driver's fault. Drivers came out to have a word, which quickly developed into a hassle.  
John suspected those men met each other in their worst moments. Their faces turned red, voices getting louder and louder. Hands shoved, fists bouncing through the air. They moved their car to the side of the road and started the struggle on the pavement. People slowly gathered to watch. Few pedestrians ventured to stop the struggle, but only made it worse. Soon men tangled into a bodily fight.  
While the quarrel was quickly reaching its climax, a luxury car approached Briony Lodge. Irene Adler. John thought.

The quarrel situated right in front of the Lodge, so the car was stuck between the traffic and the fight. The fight was heated up, but Adler seemed to have a problem in waiting. She stepped down from her car. A man, seemingly her chauffeur, tried to aid her through the fight, but he made no help.  
If not for Sherlock who ventured in at the moment, Adler could have been injured. Sherlock dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but just as he reached her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground. The quarrel stopped dead, men exchanging awkward looks then backing out. Spectators came out, one by one, to stop Sherlock from crashing his head onto the pavement.

The next moment, John took a good sight at Sherlock-and he saw the blood, running freely down Sherlock's cheekbones. Sherlock's blood, so red, the intense colour burning next to Sherlock's porcelain-white skin. He felt anger burning up inside his guts. Sherlock was hurt.

John tried to believe it was just part of Sherlock's plan, but the fact itself threw John into rage.  
He saw Irene Adler hurrying up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street.

- Is the poor gentleman much hurt?

She asked.

- He is dead,

Some shouted.

- No, no, there's life in him!

shouted another.

- But he'll be gone before you can get him to hospital."

- He's a brave fellow,

said a woman.

- They would have had the lady if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now.

Men agreed, praising the clergyman's bravery and virtue.

- He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, ma'am?

- Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!

Adler shouted. Sherlock was slowly borne into the Lodge. John awed at Sherlock's scheme, while approaching the Lodge, just as Sherlock's instructions. John stood next to the window, and he took a look at Sherlock lying down on the couch. He saw Adler's presence hovering next to Sherlock, a beautiful figure-which reminded John of his conversation with the woman.

She was suffocated from her lover, less provocative than deplorable.  
But John collected his wits and gripped at the smoke rocket.

All, for Sherlock.

He saw Sherlock sit up upon the couch, and saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window.

John saw Sherlock raise his hand at the signal, then tossed his rocket into the room with the cry of fire-which brought a crowd of men swarming around the Lodge, shrieking "Fire!". Those shouts evoked others to do the same. John took the chance to escape into the crowd.

The only thing remaining for him was to wait.

~oOo~

Sherlock saw Adler at the moment of the false alarm. She quickly shot a glance to the corner of the room, a frame hanging behind the vase. Sherlock was sure that there would be a vault behind the frame. Adler paced around the room then left, when Sherlock hurried to the wall, removed the vase and the frame.

As much as he expected, there was a vault waiting for him. Of course there was a dial, but Sherlock was sure he can seek out the number. Six numbers. What number, what digits are the way to a woman's treasure? What number, will do the magic, unlock the heart of a woman?

Sherlock went through his mind palace, processing every information he gathered. His espionage around the Club. What he heard from Wernheim. What he read on Mycroft's file. Everything was in his mind palace, and he was sure the answer was in there.

After a moment, Sherlock raised his fingers, slightly trembling, then reached at the dial.

9, 9, 9, 0, 7, 7

Sherlock turned the dial, which clicked gracefully. Bingo. Sherlock smirked.  
A cell was waiting for him inside the vault. The photos may rest in this.  
With his smile of victory, Sherlock reached at the cell. At the same moment, a hand reached his shoulder.

- Give me that.

Sherlock gripped at the cell and turned, but the hand threw him to the floor. He groaned, lifted his eyes to observe the attacker. Sherlock let out a lamenting sigh.

- Irene Adler.

The woman looked down at Sherlock, a glimpse of hauteur in her eyes. Sherlock was sprawled across the floor next to her high heels.

~oOo~

"Give me that."

Adler snapped. Her voice was like a whip, but her eyes were pleading. Sherlock grasped at the cell and raised his torso on his elbows.

Her eyes glowed.

"Oh, it was my simple heart which led you into my sitting room. You are a man of awe, Sherlock Holmes... How, how did you find it?"  
"When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse,"

Sherlock muttered with a grunt. He managed to stand up.

"A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box."

Sherlock saw Adler's eyes failing, unveiling her bewilderment.

"But for you, not a baby, nor jewels, but this,"

Sherlock lifted the cell in his hand.

"This is it."  
"That's mine."

Adler snarled. Sherlock hid his hand.

"Give, it, to me."

Her voice was trembling. Sherlock maintained the stance, while slowly backing to the exit.  
But he never saw Adler diving at him. He felt something stinging at his neck. He saw the syringe in her hand.

"What-"

Then his brain buzzed. Sherlock staggered, but he maintained his grip on the cell. Adler pushed him to the floor, which led Sherlock loose his grip. He saw her picking the mobile up. Sherlock tried to reach out, but his hands weren't working well.  
Adler checked her mobile, then smiled at Sherlock. Her scarlet smile glowed in Sherlock's dazed sight. She leaned over towards him, lips right next to his ears.

"Sorry for your inconvenience, monsieur Holmes. I may entertain you, but you seem already taken."

_What?_

Sherlock wanted to ask, but his lips were paralyzed. He dazed at Adler smiling down at him.

"Au revoir, ma mie."

She kissed at him through the air. Sherlock heard her stilettos clicking out of the room. His sight darkened, and the last thing he remembered was the scent of her perfume.

* * *

**A/N:** Hello, long time no see ;) As I've warned you earlier, I've been quite busy for a week. Actually, I'll be busy for quite a long time from now on... but I'll never stop the story or so. You'll definitely see the end of it.

By the way, this chapter is a merge between BBC Sherlock and canonical version. The convos between Sherlock and John are largely referencing to the canon.  
As I've said, I'm a huge canon geek :D

**Footnote: **Oh, and just in case... What Adler said in French was "Good bye, my love." I believe my version of Adler can use French, quite elegantly. Don't you think her French will be sexy? XD


	9. (2) A Scandal In Manhattan-Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **Simple. Don't own 'em.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

2. A Scandal in Manhattan

Chapter 6: The Wedding

~oOo~

Sherlock moaned. He felt as if somebody was cutting through his skull.  
His eyelashes fluttered. He slowly opened his eyes.

_Where am I?  
_Familiar scent, familiar atmosphere. It was Baker Street.

"John?"  
Sherlock looked around. The room was empty.  
"John!"

John was making dinner when Sherlock woke up. He heard Sherlock's voice from the stove, then rushed to the bedroom.

"Sherlock?"  
"John- She- Where is she?"  
"Who is she?"  
"The woman. THE woman!"

His tongue was the problem. Sherlock felt his mouth numb. John grabbed at Sherlock's shoulders, soothing him with a cooing sound.

"Calm down, Sherlock. She's not here."  
"She took the photos. I got them, but she took them."  
"Calm down. Relax, Sherlock. You'll be fine in the morning."

John pushed Sherlock down to the bed. Sherlock grumbled while dragging the blanket up.

"Of course I'll be fine, I am **_fine_**. I'm absolutely fine."

John smiled. _What a child.  
_As if he was dealing with a preschooler, John whispered at Sherlock, his hands sweeping Sherlock's curls away from his forehead.

"Yes, you're great. I'll be in the next room if you need me."

Apparently John's tone was not well-received by Sherlock, as Sherlock pouted at John.

"Why would I need you?"  
John shrugged.  
"No reason at all."

He patted on Sherlock's hair, then left the room.

After John completed his tasks and waited for Sherlock at the corner of Serpentine Avenue, a black limousine approached him about 20 minutes later. The window came down, just to reveal a certain beauty; Adler, she was.

- Hello, John. Good to see you again.

She whispered sweetly, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. The scarlet red lipstick glowed through the dusk.  
Adler's chauffeur stepped out then pulled something out of the back seat. _...Sherlock?  
_That 'something' was Sherlock, which was left at John's feet. The chauffeur returned to the driver's seat, and Adler saluted at John. John dazed at the black limousine disappearing into the thick London atmosphere. John took a cab with his unconscious friend, his tall friend who John had to bring up to the flat with considerable strength. He went through quite a hassle just to bring Sherlock to his bedroom-and what he receives back is something of_ "I'll be fine, I am fine".  
_John complained in his mind, but his thoughts naturally returned to worrying about Sherlock. All the time.

"John-!" He heard Sherlock, so John rushed into the bedroom again. Sherlock glanced at him from the bed.

"Making pasta?"  
John nodded. Sherlock answered.  
"Make it for two. I'm hungry."  
John sighed.  
"Okay. You should have said so. I'll call you when it's ready."

When John turned and tried to close the door behind him, Sherlock called him again.  
"Why? You need anything, mate?"  
John talked through the crack of the door, which Sherlock answered back with a shake.  
"...Leave the door open."  
"Why?"  
Sherlock shrugged.  
"No reason at all."  
"Okay, if you say so."

John pushed the door wide open, then returned to the kitchen stove. Sherlock's eyes never left John's back. His blue eyes trailed every single movement of John.  
He gulped back at the unsaid words.

_Because, I can watch you from the bedroom door._

~oOo~

The next morning, John ran in to Farrow just like any other day.  
"Good morning, Mister Watson!"  
The professor saluted him with enthusiasm. Since their first run-in, they managed small talk now and then. Farrow was a nice guy, and even though that he was an acquaintance of Mycroft bothered John, the professor made a nice friend. John quickly removed the earphones.

"Professor."  
Farrow laughed.  
"Please, call me Denis outside."

John laughed awkwardly. He wasn't used to being friendly with somebody holding authority over him. He was always courteous to the teachers at Eton, and never dared to challenge somebody older than him. Even for peers. It made John lots of profits when it comes to social relationships, but he did not make a lot of close friends.

"It's a lovely morning, mind some morning caffeine? You helped me on that thesis few days before."  
"Oh-"  
John did give a hand on translating a French thesis for Farrow.  
He was fluent in French, thanks to Eton; and Farrow never failed to appreciate good help.  
John tought for a little, then nodded. Farrow soon found a nice café to occupy.

Double, large, latte, low fat. Farrow asked, and John called for the same. Farrow found a seat and John brought the coffee.

"How's Mister Holmes doing, John?"  
John paused briefly while drinking. _He was drugged by a billionaire's mistress and now dozed out at the flat_, was something John craved to talk, but John knew he should keep Sherlock's honour. It was the reason the Holmeses kept John next to Sherlock, anyway.

"-Well, quite busy."  
"Hmm, supposed so. Right, you took the finals last week, didn't you? How did the tests go? Waiting for good grades?"  
"Hope yours could be good."  
"Oh, I'm a easy-going professor. Who you shall worry about is Professor Duncan... But, a little birdie told me that Duncan praised you quite publicly. You can make the top of the class this year, Mister Watson."

Farrow smiled. The corner of his eyes wrinkled.

_- When somebody's eyes wrinkle every time they smile, they smile a lot,  
_Sherlock said so, back in the days. John laughed.  
"I'm flattered. But there are great students in med school..."  
"Oh, not much as you. Professors always talk about you, John. Along with your lanky friend. By the way, is that rumour true? That 'friend' and you are-"

John hurriedly cut through Farrow's words.  
"-No, we are not. Never."  
"Oh, okay. Got it. Some seemed to be quite sure on that..."

John sighed._ Is it because Sherlock's such a sociopath, and I'm his friend?_

"Again, we're just friends. That will never happen."  
The words stung, but John reminded himself that was the truth.  
"Well- still, I think you lads will make a cute couple."

Farrow laughed, and John laughed back. He strongly believed that it must have been a joke.

"-Denis!"

The moment John reached for the coffee, somebody exclaimed from behind. Farrow beamed at the stranger.

"Long time no see, Greg!"  
"I never knew you were back in London!"  
"Kind of a fast move. Got a job here, at my alma mater."  
"Oh, UCL?"

The man was wearing a black jacket and jeans. John was no Sherlock, but he managed a glance at the gun the man was carrying with him.  
Most of all, his atmosphere was all... cop. _Hmm._

"By the way... this is?"  
The stranger looked at John. John smiled at him.  
"John Watson. I'm in his class."

Suddenly, the man dazed at him. John felt awkward, shifted in his seat. Farrow leaned towards his friend and carefully poked at him.

"-Greg?"  
"Ah... Sorry."

The man quickly regained his cop stance and stuck out a hand.

"Sergeant Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard."

The instant John stood to shake the man's hand, he took a whiff of the man's scent.  
He couldn't be more happier- Lestrade was an omega, just like John.

~oOo~

"Male omegas are quite rare these days."

While Farrow visited the loo, John leaned towards Lestrade and spoke. The sergeant tore his eyes away from a streetcar and looked at John.

"Nice to meet you, again."  
John smiled, at which Lestrade dazed again. Lestrade quickly shook his head as John frowned.  
"I'm sorry. Just..."  
"Do tell. Is there something on my face or anything?"  
"No... That's..."

He hesitated. John sighed. Lestrade frowned a little.  
"Hmm, the thing is... John, John it is? You've got... quite a scent."

John paused. Lestrade glanced at him.  
"A scent?"

Lestrade hesitated a little more.  
"Well, to tell the truth, I've been recruited by the Yard for my sensitive senses. You know, hearing, sight, smell, things like that. I've got test scores and everything, but what impressed them was my senses. They thought it might help to catch the burglars or so."  
"So you think that-"  
Lestrade shrugged.  
"Well, fascinating, it is."

Lestrade stopped, and John fell quiet. He cannot believe Lestrade.  
_ascinating, a word only for Sherlock,_ John thought. Then Lestrade started again.  
"You've got an alpha, don't you?"

John paused, then slowly shook his head. Lestrade cocked his head.  
"Then- how- other alphas- or betas-"  
Farrow, who just retired from the loo, smirked at the startled cop.

"Greg, you're quite not yourself today. What is it?"  
"No..."  
Suddenly, Lestrade glanced at the watch then sprang up from his seat.

"I should go, Dennis. I've got work to do. It's been a pleasure, Mister Watson... I excuse for myself today."  
"It's okay."  
John sent a polite smile. Lestrade dug through his pocket then produced a card.  
"If you have time or anything, don't hesitate to call."

Then he ran out of the café. Farrow's smirk never fell untill Lestrade disappeared from their sight.  
"What's up with that lad?"  
Farrow laughed, and John smiled back.

~oOo~

Omegas were not common. Usually 90% of the population were betas, and 5% each for alphas and omegas. However, as time elapsed, discrimination against omegas led to selective abortion and omega holocaust. The already-small population shrunk quickly, and now the omegas hardly account for 3% of the population. Naturally, omegas become rarer and rarer as time goes, and people started to act differently towards them. They still belittled the omegas, but craved for them at the same time.  
Even among the minority, the male ones were even rarer. Only 30% of the omegas were male. It was a rare occasion, an unbonded male omega. A lot of them received lots of wooing the instant they step into adulthood, and even the adolescent ones were sought after by some alphas. But none for John. Some alphas showed their affection towards John in Eton, but it was not frequent- and those affections seemed to disappear when John came to UCL.  
Is it because of Sherlock? But even bonded omegas were still craved, and Sherlock was not even his boyfriend, less a bondmate. The fact sent John into a quagmire of inferiority complex. He always questioned himself, _What is wrong with me?_ He studied harder, and tried harder to become friendly.

"John."

When Sherlock called him, John was dazed off on the couch with his mug.

"What are you thinking of?"

John dropped his eyes to his mug. The tea was already cold. John sighed.  
"...Ah, I met a male omega yesterday."  
"Omega?"

Sherlock turned to face John from his stance by the window.

"Uh-huh. Sergeant Greg Lestrade."  
"Sergeant? Scotland Yard?"  
Sherlock's eyes glinted. John was a little anxious, but he somehow answered.  
"...Yes?"  
"I want to meet him."  
"-Huh?"

Sherlock stepped towards him.  
"I have a lot to talk. How old is he?"  
_Farrow was 35, and Lestrade was definitely younger than him, so-  
_"Late twenties, perhaps early thirties?"  
"Then not an old fox."

_Which reminds me of someone,_ John thought with a chuckle.  
"He's a friend of Professor Farrow."  
"Ah, the acquaintance of the said fox."

John narrowed his eyes to Sherlock.  
"How do you know that?"  
Sherlock looked at John.  
"What?"  
"That Farrow is Mycroft's friend."

Then Sherlock shut his mouth closed. _Great. That babbling brat shuts his mouth the very minute I want him to talk._ John crooked his eyebrows at Sherlock, but he fell dead quiet. After a few minutes passed in silence, John sighed and got up on his feet.

"I need to shop some groceries."

Sherlock stuck his hand towards John, then he spoke.  
"You got his name card, didn't you?"  
John was confused for a moment. He wanted to ask how, but Sherlock as Sherlock. John took out the name card and passed it to Sherlock.  
Sherlock observed the card for a second, then started.

"Hmm, perhaps you calling him may be better. We'll need a drink at the pub today."  
"Sherlock, please keep in mind that I just met him."  
"Aware. At least he hopes to be a friend of yours, which make things much easier."  
"-How did you know that?"  
"He gave you the 'personal' card, not the 'work' card."

Sherlock waved the card at John.

"I know the form of the Scotland Yard name card- and this is not one. Must be one for more personal relationships.  
He's an omega, so not a lover... friend, that's better."

Sherlock smirked. _Great, then._ John smiled, then took his coat.

"I'll be back till dinner, Sherlock. Don't go anywhere. Okay? Please don't try to jump off the London Bridge like last time-"  
"-It wasn't a suicide. It was a HOMICIDE!"  
"Whatever, you need to eat. If you want to take off without prior notice, please bring your phone. Don't make me call Mycroft."

Sherlock snorted at the name of his brother.

"Hmph, Mycroft."

He spoke, as if the name was one of the most bothersome things in the world. Which was true, to say the truth. Sherlock fell into his armchair with yet another humph. John rolled his eyes then took up his keys and his wallet.

"Just, don't go anywhere. Okay?"

And he closed the door behind him.

~oOo~

It happened when John was wandering along the streets. Somehow he ended up at a strange place, not the intended grocer's. Perhaps he just wasn't prepared to face with that annoying chip and PIN machine. John was sure that the machine was trying to suck the bloody strength out of him every time he shopped at the store. Of course, there still were grocer's with cashiers, but they don't have nicotine patches. _Damn Sherlock._

He sighed, then dug into his thoughts. His meeting with Lestrade emerged yet again.  
_If I was 'fascinating' as his words, why no one ever showed interest in me? Well, Adler did, but that's a totally different story._

Suddenly, John felt a hand grabbing his arm.

A young man, devilishly handsome, wearing a luxurious tux, was panting and grabbing at his arm.

"Excuse me, but- can you spare a minute?"

Not a Queen's English, but well-bred. John was sure the tux may worth for some hundred pounds or so. He tried to process the facts, but the man seemed quite in a hurry.

"What's it about?"  
"Oh, my name is Quentin Belissario. I now, need to marry- but forgot to bring a wedding witness. I need to leave the country in a few hours. Sorry for the excuse, but I supposed you're enough a gentleman."

John thought for a little.

"Where is the wedding?"  
"Right there."

A chapel, right next to them. Great. John sighed again, then nodded. The man grabbed his hand then ran into the chapel together. Just before they barged through the door, John took a glance at the name of the chapel.

**Catholic Church of St. Monica**

Where they ended up was the main hall of the chapel, empty but a priest and a woman. She was wearing a white dress, elegantly displaying her magnificent silhouette. Look from the back don't tell much, but even from that, John was sure the woman was a breathtaking beauty.  
The man approached the woman, and John walked to stand beside the priest. When John stopped and took a stance, the lady turned her face to John.

At that moment, John forgot to breathe- it was Irene Adler.

As if she suspected John's arrival, she sent an alluring smile. The sleeveless dress hugged her body perfectly, and a laced garment completed the fashion. Pearl lined along the shiny black hair. Her lipstick, still a Scarlet Red.  
The wedding went on quite swiftly. The read the vows, simple but decent, and soon the priest declared man and wife. John was still vacuous even until he signed as a witness.

_For the love of every deity- among all of the woman, Irene Adler is the one to marry._

John just **had** to see Sherlock's face when he gets the news.

The two made a perfect couple. The man(Quentin, he was) gazed at Adler, his looks soft and affectionate. Adler's impression displayed a lady in love, not the temptress at Club Sabrina. The man carefully grazed along Adler's cheeks with the back of his hand. Adler laughed melodically. After the wedding ended and the priest retired to his chamber, Adler walked towards John.

Her white heels made a clicking sound, reverberating against the walls of the chapel hall.

"Such a pleasure to meet you again, John."

Her voice was sweet. John was still dazed.

"-Uh, congratulations on your wedding, Irene."  
"What an honour, you remembered my name."

She came close. Her perfume wafted across the air. But it was not the one from the Club. No tube rose, nor the provocative scent of the roses.  
Just the pure, sweet smell of almond.

"-John, do you know when my birthday is?"

John was wordless. Adler smiled.

"It's April Fool's Day. The first of April. Don't you think it's the perfect birthday for me?"

She smiled, but John was unable to find any answers. Her hand came upwards, then touched his lips.

"For every three-hundred and sixty-five days, a flower reaches the peak of its beauty. On the first of April, the almond flower."

Her eyes smiled. John finally managed an answer, but it came out almost as a whisper.

"I never thought you devoted yourself to such superstition, Miss Adler."  
"Please, call me Mrs. Belissario."

She held up her left hand. The diamond ring was gleaming on her fourth finger.

"John."

She whispered.

"You, are an honest man, as I've said... It's a tragedy, of breaking such a man's heart. Nobody would want it. So..."

She moved her lips right next to John's ears.

"Please, be honest to yourself as well. Think about what you want, no, what you need.  
For just once... don't reason with yourself, but follow your heart."

Her breath smelled of almonds, delight and of verity.

_"Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss."_**_(1)**

_The words of Keats. A prominent poet, devoted to romanticism._  
_His words sing of sentiment, putting reason aside._

John silently reminded of his English literature class.  
Adler's choice of poetry was perfect; she, indeed, was a perfect representation of human sentiment.  
The emotions, deep desires in human heart, colourful and diverse, but altogether natural.

Her lips pressed against John's cheeks. John felt her hands against his pockets. She removed her lips, then stepped back.

"Just a little present for your effort, my omega."

She winked at him, then turned to be escorted by her newly declared husband. John looked blankly at the back of Irene Belissario, gracefully walking out of the chapel. He reached into his pocket. A box and a note.

He opened the note.

You know where to find me. -Love, Irene Belissario

John smiled. _What a woman, she is._

* * *

**A/N: **Did anybody suspect it would be Adler's wedding from the title? If then, kudos for your canon knowledge!  
I warned that I'm a canon geek, so there it is. Adler marrying.  
The part where Johnny is the witness for her marriage is just a joke. In the canon, a cab driver named 'John' was the witness.  
The Catholic Church of St. Monica is the church where Adler married in the canon. It exists in modern-day London, roughly 3 hours worth of walk from Baker Street. So poor Johnny wandered a lot in the streets XD

Hope you like where the story is going. The next chapter is going to be the last of 'A Scandal In Manhattan', and then comes the Interlude.  
There's going to be a little Johnlock sexy time in the Interlude ;) Ratings will go up. Yeah.

Then, see you later fellas ;)

* * *

**Footnote_(1): **_Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss. __ **_John Keats, Endymion**_


	10. (2) A Scandal In Manhattan-Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I'm not so sure, but I believe the copyright of the original case files are in the public domain... but I don't know when it comes to fanfiction involving the BBC version. Whatever, in any way, I don't own 'em.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

2. A Scandal in Manhattan

Chapter 7: The Present

~oOo~

John had to face an enraged Sherlock Holmes when he came back to the flat.

"What is up with you?"

Sherlock pointed at John's face. John stepped in front of the mirror, and scrutinized himself.  
A Scarlet Red lipstick was gleaming on his right cheek. Apparently, somehow Adler sneaked a kiss before he knew.  
Sherlock stomped towards John, took a tissue then rubbed it off his face.

"Where have you been?"

Sherlock said, as if nagging. John placed the box on the table, then blurted out.

"Irene Adler, is married."

The flat was suddenly sunk in silence.  
After a few minutes, Sherlock slowly asked.  
"...What?"  
"Quentin Belissario."

John took out the box. It was Scarlet Red, just like her lipstick.  
"She gave me this."

John threw the box at Sherlock. Sherlock catched the box perfectly, without any hesitation. He opened the box, just to find the phone he failed to obtain few days ago. He took the mobile in his hand, apparently lack of words. A note was placed under the mobile. An expensive piece of paper. Sherlock took out the smooth paper and unfolded it.

_"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.-You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that if Timothy employed an agent it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I came down just as you departed. Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of intrest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I bumped into your fascinating dear friend John._  
_"We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you are reading my note. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. Timothy may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I leave the photographs in case somebody may care to possess: and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes._  
_"Very truly yours, IRENE Belissario, nee ADLER"_

Informed of everything, Wernheim exclamated in admiration.

"What a woman-oh, what a woman!"

He accepted the mobile Sherlock handed him.  
"To where she would have departed, Mister Holmes?"

Two hours ago, John read the note after Sherlock finished it and fell into his mind palace. He asked the same question-and Sherlock blurted out after some time passed.

- Hong Kong.  
- ...Hong Kong?  
- The key code to the vault was 999077, zip code to Hong Kong. Presumably her lover-now, husband, may found an occupation there. According to Mycroft's files, she frequently mailed to a 999077 area. Perhaps about the residency problems or so...

And he fell into silence, yet again. It remains a mystery, that how Sherlock came to the conclusion that it was the key code, but John was a loyal man-he never doubted Sherlock, especially when it comes to his deduction skills.

Sherlock looked directly into Wernheim's eyes.  
"It was my duty to find the photographs, so I suppose none is left."

Sherlock said coldly, but Wernheim seemed indifferent. But John knew. Sherlock was protecting Irene Adler-_is it because she is the only woman who defeated Sherlock?_ An unknown emotion slowly emerged upon the surface of John's heart. But yet again, John presses it down, conceals it and zip it up-it should not be his.

"Why she, would give up the photographs just now?"  
"She may need some time before she leave the country. But now she left, and no more shield is needed."  
Wernheim nodded.

"I cannot thank you more, Mister Holmes."  
He took out his chequebook, then scrawled the longest figure John had ever seen in his life.  
Wernheim tore the cheque out and handed it to Sherlock.

"Please, for your effort."  
"It's okay."  
"No, please. I insist."

Wernheim somehow made Sherlock to accept the cheque, then leave the flat.  
But after a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson came up then whispered.

"The gentleman wanted to speak to you, John."  
"...Me?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. John was startled that Wernheim ever wanted to speak to him, as he supposed himself was merely a sidekick.

"Yes. Just, come down."  
John felt Sherlock's piercing looks on his back, but he left the flat. He followed Mrs. Hudson down the staircase, and found the billionaire on the doorstep. Mrs. Hudson disappeared into whereever just to leave them alone. After her skirt left their sight, Wernheim cleared his voice then spoke.

"Mister Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you."  
"I am, too."  
"I heard you helped Mister Holmes on the case. You went to Club Sabrina?"  
"-Ah, I had."

The man's eyes were piercing. Still inhumane, cruel, but beautiful.

"Are you, perhaps, involved in any kind of relationships?"

John doubted his ears. _What on earth is this rich man asking me?  
_John pondered for a little, then decided to trust his judgement.  
"Um, none at all."  
He answered slowly.

Wernheim pushed his hands inside his jacket then produced a name card.

"This is my personal number. If you ever come to the States, or... Hhmm... You've got an e-mail account?  
May I have the honour to be informed of it?"

John was still stunned, and scrawled his e-mail account down an expensive jotter with a luxurious pen. What am I doing? He questioned himself, but he was so bewildered to think straightly. After John finished writing, Wernheim took the jotter then smirked at him.  
"I heard you graduated Eton then moved onto UCL medical school. I'm familiar of your academical accomplishments. I want an intellecutal spouse... Somebody told me, brainy is the new sexy."

Wernheim winked at John, then stepped over the threshold. John stiffened on the place, unable to move for a considerable amount of time. _What just happened?_

~oOo~

Sherlock opened the drapes. He watched the billionaire step out of the flat, then looking up.  
Their eyes met;the alphas exchanged a knowing look, a look of wariness. The billionaire stared back at Sherlock for a while, then stepped into his expensive car.  
The luxurious car drove a way smoothly, and Sherlock never removed his eyes from the car until it disappeared around the corner. He stepped back from the window side, then stumbled back to his armchair. Just then, he heard the door opening.  
A familiar face popped in, through the crack of the door.

"Sherlock, what do you want for lunch?"  
_John, it is._ Sherlock stared at John for a moment.  
"...Anything."

John sent a look of doubt, but Sherlock said nothing. The young omega's head soon disappeared. Sherlock fell into his thoughts.

Irene Adler's perfume showed herself... The first impression, a dangerous pleasure. Her splendid beauty woos whoever it is, as the individual come to know her. Tube rose, then an ample aroma of the roses. But after a while, after a considerable amount of time passed, after the glamour and artificial masks have faded out... What is left, is a pure, delicate almond scent. In the floral language, what almond means is- true love.

"What a woman―oh, what a woman!"

**__ A Scandal in Manhattan, Case Closed_**

* * *

**A/N: **You may feel this chapter shorter than others, but I had to end it here just to divide the chapters. I promise, the next chapter will be much longer than this.  
So, how do you think about the case? I've spent some time straightening up this case... but, as I not being a professional writer, there may be flaws...  
Please, be kind to point them out.  
I really appreciate any words about my story, short or long.

The new part will start: Part 3, and it will be titled Interlude. Ratings will go up 2 or 3 chapters later.  
Then, thank you for reading my story! The next chapter will be up in few days, at least I hope so!  
Oh, and if there's anybody reading my story chapter by chapter every time I upload it, thank you so much. I know how much it is hard to wait for a story.  
Thank you so much for your anticipation.

* * *

**Footnote_(1): **The note Irene Adler left is inspired by the one in the canon. I rearranged it through the AU filter.  
**Footnote_(2): **Anyone noticed the quote from BBC in Wernheim's words, "Brainy is the new sexy?" ;)


	11. (3) Interlude-Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock, or any of the beloved characters.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

3. Interlude

Chapter 1: Two Pints of Lager, and a Packet of Crisps Please

~oOo~

Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.  
_**_Sylvia Plath, 『The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath』_**

~oOo~

The pub Lestrade picked for the meeting was a nice little place. It was filled of young lovers, chatting friends and singles dreaming of an easy-going romance. John loved the buzzing vitality the crowd was producing.

He heard a ring. It was his smart phone, chiming for an e-mail alert.  
John took out his mobile to check the sender.

Send: TimRWernheim  
Title: Thought about it?

John didn't even bothered to read the mail. It was sure that Wernheim was trying to flirt with him via electronics even John, with his utmost courtesy, wrote back with words of apparent refusal. Which Wernheim replied with an invitation to his villa in Nice. The title implied that this mail would be a reminder of that invitation. John frowned, then pushed the mobile back into his pocket.  
He'll write back. Someday. Well, it would be rejection anyway. But now was the time for Sherlock.

"Want a drink, Sherlock?"  
John was careful to ask, as he knew better than anyone that Sherlock was bad at holding liquor.  
"A glass of tonic water, perhaps?"  
"Beer."

John crooked his eyebrows. Sherlock shrugged.  
"I'll just have them and not drink them."

John knew about Sherlock's eccentricity during his drunk times. He knew Sherlock would eventually fall asleep, and the one who carries him home was, well, John himself. He was glad that Lestrade picked a pub somehow close to Baker Street. He sighed to himself, internally. John leaned over the counter and called for the bartender.

"Two pints of lager, and a packet of crisps please. What's on tap?"  
"Carling."  
John nodded, and the bartender soon produced the drink and chips. Upon receiving them, Sherlock scrutinized the drinking glass.

"Sure you need a liquor?"  
Handing bartender the money, John asked.  
"It's hard to expect my conversation partner to drink while I have none. Also, it's been proved for thousands of years that alcohol brings the wall down and soothens social relationships."  
Sherlock spoke, while scrutinizing John's sipping on the lager.

"Considering the aroma and the colour, what you just drank is Carling Black Label. They say it's the British one, but do you know that's actually Canadian?"  
John heard him, then smirked. He picked up a chip and crushed it between his teeth.  
"No, I haven't."  
If John succeeds keeping Sherlock to talk, it may be unnecessary for Sherlock to perform the 'What effects alcohol can have on human body and soul' experiment himself. John knew how to keep a conversation with Sherlock going, due to years of (unintended) training. What Sherlock needs was just an accepting audience.

"That's true. Their marketing group keeps quite a questionable silence about their origins... Considering that Carling keeps a considerable amount of market share on the British lager market, it's quite a successful marketing tactic. If you wanted me to stay sober for long enough, you would have been better to order Carling Zest, much lower in ABV, thus taking longer for me to get drunk. However, you're also aware of the fact that I do not favour added flavours in beverages... You know I don't even fancy milk in morning tea, as it clouds the original taste. So you settled on Carling."  
"Well, I'm the one who makes you morning tea. And for the hundredth time, milked tea tastes quite good!"  
"So you put milk in your tea. Every time. 'Milk tea', you may state it."

Sherlock muttered, as if 'milk tea' was the name of a vicious criminal whom he holds in contempt. John laughed.  
"A lot of people does that, Sherlock."  
"Don't count me in."  
"So you're degrading my habit?"

Sherlock thought for a while, then shook his head.

"Not at all. Anyway, you're supplying your share of milk by yourself. It produces negative effects on no one. You're not the one who oppresses their own habits on someone else, like _somebody_."

Sherlock frowned a little on his last sentence. John laughed again. It was quite blatant that Sherlock was implying of his brother. Mycroft favoured to intervene with everyting in the life of his little brother, and Sherlock truly repugnant of it.

"You know it comes from his worries, Sherlock."  
"I don't want to be sacrificed for the nosy."  
"At least, he always help you when you turn to him."

While he talked, John reminded himself that Mycroft also helped Sherlock on the hiring of Farrow. John never managed an explanation from Sherlock on that issue, yet. While John thought, silence came between them. Sherlock was studying the surface of the beer before he tried to reach the glass and bring it up to his lips. John was fast enough to slap Sherlock's hand away from the glass.

"No, Sherlock."  
The alpha pouted.  
"I just wanted to study."  
"Oh, yes. And you wanted to 'study' what the beer feels down your throat. Perhaps wanted to study the bottom of the glass after you drank it down."  
"Why are you acting so sensitive about that?"  
"If you get drunk, I'm the one who have to deal with the aftermath, Sherlock. Not you. And I don't want to go through that suffering yet again."

Sherlock's expressions turned prim. John smirked on the inside, but he maintained a stern face on the outside. Soon, the entrance revealed a familiar face. A perfect timing. John hurried up his hand and called out.  
"Lestrade-!"  
The policeman, looking around the pub, spotted John and hurried on his direction. Sherlock, whose back was against Lestrade, turned his head to look at the omega cop. Lestrade then saw Sherlock and narrowed his eyes.

"Have we ever met?"  
On the unexpected remark, Sherlock dove into his mind palace for a moment then shook his head.  
"No memory. If that was your shot at flirting with me, you failed. Hello, Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade seemed quite embarrassed at Sherlock's response, but his expression soon changed.  
"Holmes-?"  
"Is my name somehow surprising to you?"  
"-Oh, no, no. Just surprised that a Holmes have an... omega 'friend'."

Lestrade's words sounded quite doubtful. John sighed and shook his head.  
"Perhaps, for almost a millionth time... We are not involved."  
"Ah... okay,"

Lestrade awkwardly scratched the back of his head. To change the issue, John hurriedly continued his words.

"By the way, thank you for meeting up, Lestrade."  
"Please, call me Greg."

Greg smirked at John before leaning towards the bartender to order a pint of lager. John slapped yet again at Sherlock's wrist, who was just reaching for the beer glass. _Second time, it was._ John wondered to himself quietly how many times he have to slap that wrist tonight.

"Okay, shall we start talking?"

Watching Greg gulping down his beer, Sherlock smirked. John always fancied his friend's smile, but this time, it made John anxious.

~oOo~

As suspected, Sherlock rambled on an on about the police investigation. He talked about the cases he read on the papers, the real convictors and evidences, their method of conviction, the possibility of additional victims... and so on. He even came up with the places where the real convictors of several notorious cold cases might live.  
Lestrade was being polite, and while he wanted to talk with John, he was plastered to the stool in front of Sherlock and make a dazed impression. John was just downing his beer next to his new friend. According to Sherlock's opinions that "in order to make Lestrade drink, he have to drink too" and "Lestrade may need some liquor to continue the conversation, as he is a cop" and some other groundless but seemingly logical statements, John let Sherlock empty a glass of beer. But as Sherlock started to blush from the liquor, and John slapped at Sherlock's attempt of taking John's glass.

"No, Sherlock. NO."  
"But I have to drink-"  
"You've already had one. No more."

Sherlock mumbled. He muttered something about "the loo" and disappeared into the bar crowd, taking advantage of his long legs. John saw more than ten eyes turning in the direction of the tall alpha. Again, that strange emotion. And again, the removal. It just wasn't his. Greg reached for the glass. John sat next to him, emptied the glass and turned to Greg.

"Are you, in any way, come to know with the Holmeses?"  
Greg gave a curious look. John continued.  
"It's not that a well-known fact that... the Holmeses don't let omegas hover by."

The older omega smiled. He was hesitant for a little, then spoke.  
"I know a Holmes. Mycroft Holmes."  
John was dazed for a while, then was reminded that Farrow may have been the connection. The policeman continued.  
"Mycroft told me... that the Holmeses, never take an omega."

There was a hit of sadness, somewhat significant, but John kept his ignorance against it. The sadness was familiar to the omega; so John had to add extra effort just to ignore it. Silence came in, just to bring out the jazz playing on the background. Lestrade tilted his beer glass, and John crunched the guiltless piece of potato chip. To break the awkward silence, John quickly blurted out whatever dawned on his mind.  
"Have you ever... watched the games recently?"  
Greg shot a glance toward John.  
"What game, in particular?"  
"Manchester United, versus Liverpool."  
"Oh, god. The tragedy."  
"You know, van Persie got injured recently."  
"Yet another tragedy."

~oOo~

"By the way, quite a great friend you have there." John just finished his third glass of lager. Sherlock was still absent, and the two omegas were building up quite a bond. Lestrade was more of a familiar guy John had expected, and their hobbies went along smoothly. Their likes on dislikes on some players met a conflict, but a little heat in the conversation brought them even closer. John responded with a tipsy glance.

"Back then... when he was rambling... he seemed to know every single cold case of the Yard. Sometime, if possible, I hope I can bring him down to the Yard and show him the files. Of course, he is a little annoying, but if you're next to him, things might be better."  
"I know him well, and he will jump around like a delighted school boy if you tell him."

The older omega laughed. John ordered another pint and tilted the glass. Cold liquid filled up his mouth, and the bubbles gave a little pang down his throat. It gave a cool feeling which made his eyes snap open, but it eventually returned with more drunkenness. John shook his head and sighed.

"Pain in my arse, he is. Quite a friend."  
"Not a boyfriend?"

John crooked his eyebrows upward. Yet again, the rumour. John bit down lightly on his lips.  
"Again... No way."  
"Oh... but..."

The sergeant gave a tipsy smile.  
"But you seem to fancy him."

John dazed at Lestrade. _It must be a joke, isn't it? It should be._ But the policeman's eyes were sparkling bright and sober. John tried to force himself to believe that it was the drunk talk.  
"John. Please. You keep up with him more than a decade. How can you do that, if you don't fancy him? As a friend, of course."  
Lestrade added playfully at the end of his words.

_So he meant that?_ John sighed in relief. _By the way, what on earth Sherlock is doing in the loo for this long?_

"-or, more than that?"

John glanced at the older omega. He smirked and sipped at his beer, but John still recognised the sharp sparkling in his eyes.

"Hullo, only you two omegas?"

John was just tilting the glass on his lips, when he turned to find who spoke.  
Bright blond, green eyes. His hair was gelled-up, which John supposed that it must have consumed quite a gel. It showed great confidence. The black-haired alpha behind the blond one let out a whistle. Both alphas were quite handsome, considering objectively.

"Wow, what a treat!"

Alpha. Both alphas. Omega, especially two male omegas drinking together alone was one of the rarest tableau. So it was quite natural that they attracted the alphas, especially when without a presence of a Sherlock Holmes. John frowned and shot a glance at Lestrade, who was facing the alphas with a cold stance. The blond alpha leaned towards John and scented him.  
"-Hoo! If all the omegas smelled delicious like you, they would have never been such trouble..."  
John gritted his teeth then growled.

"Back off."  
The man gave a smirk, as if John's remark only flamed his interest.  
"Hey. Don't you think I'm quite a man? And, I like you. An omega like you is... well, perhaps almost impossible."  
"No male omegas are unbonded these days."

The black-haired alpha, walking around Lestrade, made a remark. The blond one gave a nod then turned his gaze to John.  
-How can you be unbonded... How?"  
After a few minutes of intent gaze, the blond gave an exclaimation. John frowned then stood from the stool. Unfortunately, the blond was much taller than him; so John failed to tower over the man, but he was sure that he can somehow manage to do some damage on the blond if necessary.

"I was watching you for quite a while. You are so..."  
ohn felt the blond's hand against his cheeks. He frowned, and slapped the man's hand away.

"We are not seeking for bondmate. At least in this pub. Please leave us alone."

But the one who complained was the alpha.  
"Hey, two male omegas, unbonded, drinking without an alpha at a pub? You're practically screaming for a fuck, really. And an omega like you? It's a miracle you're still here. It should be a crime that an omega like you are unbonded."

The alpha extended a finger and pulled John's chin upwards. His intent gaze seemed that he wanted to bond with John right here in the middle of a crowded pub. John curled his hand into a fist, just in case if the man started at him. Then, the alpha gave a sly smile then spoke.  
"But, if an omega especially like you, I would go for you whether you're bonded or not."

John growled, and the omega smirked. John tightened his fist, his muscles slowly clicking into a fight stance. But what broke the tension between them was the unexpected.

A Sherlock Holmes, dragging a battered man out of the loo, stood dead on his spot in the sight of the blond alpha. Sherlock seemed quite scarred, too. Clearly displaying the bodily struggle he went through, red line scarred along his cheekbones. John instinctively stepped towards Sherlock to examine the scar, but the instant John moved the blond alpha snatched his wrist.

"...Is he, your alpha?"  
John glared at the blond alpha. But his expression was not flirty and goofy as before, but cold otherwise.  
It was an alpha expression, one in a fight, especially for a fight over an omega. John felt that things were going in a totally wrong way.  
He spared a glance at Lestrade, and saw him texting busily to somewhere. It could have been his colleague, his family, or anybody, but John somehow thought that Lestrade was texting Mycroft. No reason at all.

"-Yes."

John told the blond. It wasn't the truth, and he felt rough in his mouth. He felt bad.  
John escaped from the blond's grip, and the man's eyes narrowed at the omega. Sherlock dropped the already unconscious man in his grip onto the pub floor. Since the blond alpha started to flirt with John, the entire pub was staring at them forming a big circle around them, so there were enough space around Sherlock.

"Oh, really-?"  
"But, to be clear, I'm no one's omega."

The man stared at John.  
"And it includes you, mate."

John said with a smirk. The blond alpha stopped in his advance towards Sherlock and turned to John.

"Why? You don't like my looks? Or, think I'm poor? I'm rich. Well, my father is rich."

The man sounded quite proud. John's inner self laughed quietly.  
"I don't want an empty-headed alpha like you, with billions of pounds or so."  
"What?"

The man launched at John. He felt the piercing gaze of Sherlock on his skin, but John ignored and continued.  
"Oh, if an unbonded omega is drinking at a pub, you just jump them? Don't you think with a brain, why I'm still unbonded? Because, I don't want an alpha like you. Even if all the alphas died out and you're the only one left."

John spoke derisively. The blond's face reddened with emabrassment and anger, but John ignored him and turned to face Sherlock. He stepped closer to the alpha and lifted his hand to Sherlock's scarred face.

"What on bloody earth happened in there, Sherlock?"

John asked, one hand on his hips, his tone scolding but his eyes spoke differently. The next moment, Sherlock pulled at John's shoulders. John was startled at the moment, but he soon found out why. He heard Sherlock growling low.

"**_Mine_**."

* * *

**A/N**: Hullo there, ladies. ;) I felt bad for the previous chapter being so short, so I came back with a longer one. Hope you like it. Just a scene in a pub.  
The Interlude may take up three or four chapters, I presume.  
By the way, the quote from Sylvia Plath not only apply to this chapter, but apply to the whole Interlude. I'll sometimes place some quotes at the beginning of a chapter. It implies to the plot... foreshadowing, in a flashy sense, but just my dorky habit.

Did anybody recognised the title? :D


	12. (3) Interlude-Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Still not owning 'em.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

3. Interlude

Chapter 2: The Confession

~oOo~

John turned his head, and saw the blond alpha. Thanks to Sherlock's sudden pull, John was burying his face in Sherlock's chest.  
The alpha's scent whirled around the blond omega. John closed his eyes. He heard the blond alpha growling.

"You are not his alpha."  
"Oh, but I'm still a friend. By the way, his name is John Watson, not an 'omega'."

Every time Sherlock blurted out, his lungs and the air around him vibrated along his low baritone. It reverberated through John's body through their contact. It was a pleasant experience, and John giggled against Sherlock's chest. It wasn't just the vibration, but Sherlock's words which made him laugh.  
Sherlock heard his laugh, and John felt Sherlock's hands tighten around his shoulders.

He heard the blond alpha growling, but soon stopped.  
When John turned to take a look at him, the blond alpha was standing with his arm crossed, complete with his smug face.

"I'll stop it here, for now. But this is not the end."

He cast a strong gaze at John.

"John Watson, it was-? Someday, you're going to bond with somebody. It will be **me** whom you'll bond."

Leaving his confident words, he strode out of the pub, snatching the black-haired alpha still lingering around Lestrade. Finally Sherlock let go of John's shoulders, and the instant John felt it he went for Sherlock's face.

"Oh, god, Sherlock. What on earth happened in there?"

The cuts were not severe, but it could have been scars, if worse.  
Sherlock was staring down at John. His beautiful sky blue eyes felt as deep as a tranquil body of water. John felt breathless for a moment, but he soon managed to turn his eyes on the man whom Sherlock threw on the pub floor. Sherlock soon spoke.

"Lestrade, this man is the guilty for the hotel robbery you mentioned earlier."  
"-What?"

Lestrade sprang from his stool and ran towards them. He started to scrutinize the unconscious man on the floor.

"I'll talk further down at the Yard. But I'm sure he's the one."

Sherlock pulled a wallet out of his pocket, then waved it at Lestrade.

"Hector Greslani, judging by his license. Was minding his own business in the loo. I started to question him, and he instantly attacked me. I completely, utterly, and purely fought back with self-defense. Everything should be blamed on this brat. Some of the scars were made by himself."

John never stopped scrutinising Sherlock's wounds until he finished his words. Luckily, the wounds seemed to be limited to Sherlock's face, and no more. However, John still felt bad. He thought of the Sherlock's wound which enabled him into the Briony Lodge.

The blood on the cheekbones, strikingly contrasting his white skin. John was helpless then. Hopelessly.  
The unconscious man moaned, then slowly opened his eyes. Lestrade turned his body then cuffed him on the back. The man let out a painful groan, but he failed to protest.

"Hector Greslani, you're guilty of the charge for the Ritz Hotel robbery."

Then John heard Lestrade reading the rights. The man was having a hard time taking a grasp of what's happening, until Lestrade pulled him up.  
Suddenly, the pub's door was pushed wide open, then men in suits sprang inside. An alpha trailed them, with smug steps and an umbrella. Sherlock growled.

"Mycroft."  
"How pleasant it is, to meet one's beloved brother."

Unlike his words, Mycroft's face gave away anything but pleasance.  
Lestrade rushed towards the alpha then whispered something into his ears. Mycroft nodded.

"I'll escort this gentleman to the Yard. Come with me, Lestrade?"  
"Of course."

Mycroft gestured towards his underlings, whom grabbed Greslani's arms then pulled out of the pub.

"Wait a second."

John stepped out in a hurry then called out, at which Mycroft stared back.  
Mycroft smiled at John, turned his umbrella and stood in a confident stance.

"Hello, John. It's been a long time since we've seen each other."  
"Oh, get out of here. You see me every day, don't you Mycroft? Of course, it's just on your side, that's the difference. By the way, I hate that."

Mycroft smiled, then spoke.

"...Well, if you intend to degrade my worries for your safety and my brother, I cannot stop it. You're a free man."  
"That bloody freedom. You're the _bloody_ government, and you speak of freedom? What an irony."  
"Oh, John, Sherlock is such a bad influence. You've been such a lovely boy back then."

John crooked his brows upwards, so Mycroft sighed and continued.

"Okay, what's it for?"  
"I have something to talk with this gentleman."

John nudged at the swaying Hector Greslani, in the hand of Mycroft's underling. His consciousness blurred but awaken, Hector was struggling out of the suit's hand.

"Go ahead."  
Mycroft gestured with courtesy, and John stepped forward. Hector glanced at him curiously, while John cracked his fingers and turned his wrists.

"What are you? An omega?"

Hector tried to come up with something of an omega-insult, but the next moment John's fist swung through his stomach. The convict let out a yelp then dropped his head. John leaned forward and whispered into the convict's ear.

"This is for the scar on his face."

Lestrade whistled.  
"Impressive, John."

Hector was on the verge of unconsciousness after the blow to his stomach.  
"Not so much, I think."

John smirked at Lestrade while glancing at the poor convict.

"If you weren't a medical student, I would have recruited you for the Yard."  
Lestrade said with a laugh. Mycroft gestured to his underlings, then pulled Lestrade out of the pub. John turned back, and stood face to face with Sherlock.

"...John."

Sherlock sent a longing gaze at John. John perfectly knew what Sherlock was longing for. He sighed.|  
"Okay, go with them."  
Sherlock smiled, then jumped besides the omega.  
"Come with me, John."  
"You want me to come along to the Yard?"

Sherlock nodded. John sighed yet again.  
"Okay. Let's go."

John knew this meeting with Lestrade wasn't going to be pretty, but he never knew it would end up in the Scotland Yard. Following the skirt of Sherlock's coat, John groaned in his head.

~oOo~

The next morning, John dug into the couch after he finished his morning routine. Sherlock was up all night, and he managed to come upstairs and fall asleep yet again. John was still thinking of Lestrade's words.

_- We never finished talking. Let's meet up again._

_Tomorrow's Saturday. Fine, isn't it?_ Then Lestrade smiled at him. John pulled out Lestrade's name card.

Sergeant Greg Lestrade.  
The black letters on the card were sitting there quietly, smiling and talking like Lestrade. John stared for a minute then laughed at his own imagination.

- The café we met last time was quite good.

_It was where Farrow took me_, John thought.

The coffee was not bad. John was not a gourmet man, but he thought himself as a high-class taster...thanks to Sherlock.

Everything could be blamed on Sherlock, after all.  
Every single habit of John, every single actions. Every words. Nothing was left on John, unless Sherlock was the reason.  
If it was somebody else, he would have been suffocated by the fact-but John was, okay.  
Because Sherlock was a Holmes.

_- An alpha and an omega cannot be the same. It had always been that way._

Her soft voice hovered around his ears. John reminded of his mother's words... not for the last time.  
The Holmeses made his life. If not for Nathanael Holmes, his grandfather must have ended up in wrong hands. If not for the Holmeses, his parents may have ended up in worse conditions and lives. If not for the Holmeses, John Watson could not have been born, breathe, go to Eton and dream of a doctor.  
John knew it from his younger days. Every taste of bread, every sip of water reminded him of it.

He was okay for years... but the fact was now strangling him, in a completely different way.  
_- The Holmeses never leave an omega by their side. You're special, John, being their playmate.  
_Another memory emerged upon his mind. Her voice was full of pride.

It was the day when John was leaving for Chester Hall. It was a clear autumn day. Just like any other skies, the sky was clear and blue and beautiful that day. The mountain around the mansion was shining underneath the sun with a fascinating mixture of colours.  
_- You are our pride and joy, John._

John was happy back then. His mother's blue eyes, gleaming with happiness. His father was smiling at him, and it was a rare occasion... Young John was excited then. But her words, her soft and warm words were now weighing heavily down on his mind.  
John was the pride of the Watsons. John had the duty to be loyal for the Holmeses. John Watson was obliged to take good care of Sherlock Holmes, in risk of his life.  
John thought of Sherlock, of the beautiful alpha sleeping in his bed. It was driving him crazy. However, John held himself back. He had to. _He, was the **pride, and joy**, **of his family.**_

John slowly pulled out his mobile. His fingers were trembling, but he managed to press the keys.

[ Hello. ]  
"Greg?"  
[ Ah, John. ]  
"Meet me... at six, this evening."

John closed his eyes.

~oOo~

The café was filled of pleasant murmurings. It was a warm day. The weather was pleasant... but John felt a strange heat boiling up inside his stomach.  
He felt ill since this morning, so he almost called off this meeting.. but he had to talk to Lestrade. Sherlock was thinking, as usual. Sometimes Sherlock needed an audience for blurting out his thoughts. John used to worry about it, but not for now.  
Days ago, John gave Sherlock something in case of his absence. That day, when he came back from class, John threw a box at Sherlock. As usual, Sherlock catched it perfectly.

- Nice catch, Sherlock.  
- What is this?

Sherlock rumbled the box. John smirked, while taking off his coat.  
- Guess it, Mr. Detective.  
- I do not guess.  
Sherlock said with a snort. He rumbled the box again.

- Snow ball?  
- It's almost summer, Sherlock. Do you think I'd give you a_ snow ball_?

Sherlock thought for a minute.  
- A ball.  
- No.  
- Something I cannot guess?  
- _Sherlock._

John glared at Sherlock, at which the alpha smirked.  
After a few hours, finally Sherlock ran towards him and shouted out.

- It's a skull, isn't it?

John looked up from his laptop. Sherlock was blushing a little, as if a little boy would, when meeting a marvelous adventure. John was smiling before he knew.  
- Yes, it is.

Sherlock opened the box then pulled it out. It was a skull, no less, no more. John smirked.

- It's your new friend.  
- It's real... From autopsy?  
- Not sure of the origin, but I asked Stamford.  
- Oh, the alpha who _clearly_ have second intentions for you. You never admit it, but he is definitely crazy about you.  
- Stamford is just being a gentleman, Sherlock. Being kind doesn't mean he's trying to get inside your pants.  
- Oh, you're being dumb. I should think of better things- like what I should name this?

Sherlock threw himself on the couch. It was a week ago, when it happened.  
Sherlock apparently named the skull 'Gladstone', but he sometimes called it 'skull'. For once, John saw Sherlock calling it 'Yorick'.

- Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, John; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.

Sherlock was presenting the famous line from Hamlet in a dramatic tone, while prancing around the flat. John was laughing his ass off until he fell down from his chair.

- What's so funny?

Sherlock mumbled, in a gloomy tone.  
- "The stage lost a fine actor, as you have no intent for the theatre." That's what you said to me.

John widened his eyes. It was a passing joke, never thought as a valued word.  
- You remembered that?

Sherlock stared back, with an incredulous gaze.  
- I remember everything you say, John.

Lestrade came back with the coffee. John rapidly removed his thoughts about Sherlock. The alpha must be slouching on the couch with the skull in his hands. John took a sip of the cool beverage. However, the heat inside his stomach still lingered.  
Lestrade stared back at him with a calm gaze.

"...I knew right away."  
John answered with a quizzical glance. Lestrade smiled vaguely, then continued.

"John, you're in love with Sherlock Holmes."  
John reminded of Lestrade's sharp look back at the pub. He grinned.

"That clear, is it?"  
Lestrade raised his eyes then looked at John. John's voice was lethargic, so much even surprising for himself... but John did nothing about it. Lestrade hesitated for a moment.

"...It was just my hunch."

_- The fact that you were in love, John, was actually my hunch. A man in love can identify the other._

_So it means-?_

"Greg."

John looked back at Lestrade, deep into the policeman's eyes.  
"So, you mean-"

He saw Lestrade's face crumbling into a self-mocking cold smile. John reminded of the moment when Mycroft stepped into the pub. Lestrade almost pranced towards the alpha, wide smile on his face. He could have been glad of meeting a friend. But-

"Hunch, Greg."

Lestrade was quiet. John continued.  
"You have one... so do I."

John smiled softly. A glimpse of warmth crawled upon the older omega's face. Silence emerged. The air inside the café was refreshing, but John still felt the heat inside his stomach. Removing his jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair, John started to laugh.

"This is, really, an awkward situation."  
Lestrade laughed back, in agreement.

"Who knew... that the two omegas, craving for the most anti-omega family of all Britain... would meet like this."

John spoke gloomily. Lestrade shrugged.  
"Considering the fact that the subjects we crave for are not quite human-friendly, it's a miracle."

John smirked. Sherlock was his best friend-and something else, but John just _had_ to agree with Lestrade.

* * *

**A/N: **First of all, thank you for all the continued support! Also, sorry for my late updates :( I've been busy, working my ass off these days...  
Oh, and about the reason why there was no chapter last week: I've updated another story. It's kind of a mini-sequel to Where Pathways Meet, placed in a timeline after this story is finished... but you don't need any background knowledge to read it. Well, some might help, but none won't harm you. You can check it out if you like. It's titled 'Draught of Lust'.

My schedule have capacity for only one story for each week... so I'd feel thankful if you understand it. ;)

Oh, and by the way, smut alert. I'll change the ratings now, cause there's smut next chapter! Woo hoo!


	13. (3) Interlude-Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Really, who can own them? They're on their own-always stunning and brilliant. No, this is just my crazy fangirl side talking. I don't own them, Mark Gatiss does. (Perhaps. I'm not sure of the copyright part)

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

3. Interlude

Chapter 3: The Heat

~oOo~

It was hot. Painfully hot. John let out a heaving sigh. He felt his sweat running down his nape. _How many minutes passed, since I left the café?_ John was on the verge of completely going crazy. He never put his jacket back on, but it was still blazing hot.

John stumbled. He lifted his finger and undid one of the buttons on his shirt.

"-Whoo! Who are you, smelling _this_ good?"

Unfamiliar voice. John laboriously lifted his eyes. The alpha's eyes met his, which glared instantly. John finally managed to escape from the alpha's grasp, but apparently the alpha never wanted that.

John looked around.

Alpha here, alpha there, all alphas. They were all staring at John. John paced quickly. _Why is it so hot here?_ John thought. _It'll get okay, once I make it to the flat._

The alphas slowly amassed around him. John was dizzy from the alpha scent. Thankfully the flat was not afar. Some alphas tried to block his way, but John evaded their pursuit and jumped into the flat. Mrs. Hudson was out, so John was able to enjoy the solitude of his residence.

The air was burning. His brain already broke down and succumbed to the overwhelming heat. His perception was working, but failing. John cannot stand the feeling of his clothes against his skin. It became so sensitive, that the feeling was almost painful. John took of his shirt, and tossed it onto the feet of the stairs. He unleashed his trousers. Three more stairs, and his trousers ended up on the stairs.

When John arrived at his bedroom, he had nothing but underpants on him.

It was then when John finally realized the painful truth.

The reason he felt ill this morning, the reason he felt warm at the café. The reason the air is so sizzling hot and his skin got so sensitive.

It was the heat.

Since his first heat on his thirteenth birthday, John never failed to recognise when to take his suppression pills. _What made an exception?_ It was hard for John to think, but he managed to fish up the reason: Irene Adler. That day, when John visited Club Sabrina, was the day he had to take the pills. Running after Sherlock all around London made him forget about the fact.

John fell into despair. The flat was vacant, meaning Sherlock's absence. John quickly locked the bedroom door. He somehow sought a wee bit of security, but John was lost. It was his first raw heat, which was enough to send John into panic. He was frightened. An omega in heat craved for an intercourse-no, a shag. They qualified less human, but more of a sex-driven animal.

Usually heats go on about 4 to 7 days, and fortunately John was on vacation. However, that was not his biggest problem now.

Sherlock.

John was afraid. His reason was handling him now, but he was afraid of his inner omega. It was already whispering to him, with a tempting voice. _This is what you wanted. Isn't it? This is the best opportunity. Seduce him. Accept him, and bear his child. You have to, because you're an omega._

_You want him, don't you?_

_No._ John answered back. He was panicking, but his reason managed a strong stance._ No. I'm not the usual omega... I cannot let that happen. I'm not an animal._

_- Slutty omega bastards. You brats need to prostitute through your life._

_- They always have to seduce others, full of lust. How can they manage a normal life?_

_- Omegas are merely sexual toys for alphas. They cannot climb over._

John fell to his knees. The heat was already encroaching upon his body. His inner omega was howling with want. John's reason was whispering, with a crescendo of tears. _No, John. This is not what you want. You cannot do that. You don't have the right to want-for him._

_You cannot desire him._

_But that's what you want. Isn't it?_

John wanted it more than anything. He could have given his life away in change of that. However, it was going to ruin his life. It was going to take his best friend away from him.

~oOo~

Sherlock frowned. The police made a mistake again, so Sherlock ran down to the Yard to point it out-unfortunately, Lestrade wasn't there. The Yard tried to be all ears for him, but they ended up enraging about his 'attitudes'. After they arrested the real convictors and got their confession, Sherlock received a polite and sincere apology. It failed to lighten his mood, as he was annoyed by the fact that he had to deal with 'normal' people all day without John.  
_If there was John, I wouldn't have had such a boring day._ The skull John gave him was a good friend enough, but it had no warm smile or sweet scent like John.

He did not recognised something was wrong until he approached his flat. It seemed that almost every alpha in Greater London was having a meeting in front of his flat. Everybody was hyped up, either shouting or engaged in a bodily quarrel with other alphas. One alpha took a hold of his arm, but Sherlock escaped, made his way through the crowd and opened the door.

The scent. His flat was soaked with a scent, crazily tempting. The crowd of alphas tried to sneak through the door but Sherlock shut it with a bang. He knew instinctively, that an omega in heat was in the flat.

Sherlock, in fact, was quite experienced with omega scents, including a various range of heat-scents. But not as tempting as this one, attracting all those alphas and muddling his brain.

The scent made him wordless. His ever-thinking brain was even wordless. If one tried hard to name it, everything with a relish of captivation-anything like honey, vanilla, wine, rose-if put together, could not have win a man's favour over this scent. If God dared to produce a perfume to lure every single human being, this aroma must have been his masterpiece.

Sherlock felt his thoughts fading. He unconsciously stepped forward. _From what direction the scent is coming? Upstairs._ He went up the stairs. He was so dazed by the scent, even his keen senses failed to recognise the scattered clothing on the staircase. The scent became stronger with every step, and his senses fading further.  
He found a door. There was it, where the fascinating scent originated from, behind the door.

He was going to take it. He wanted to own whatever triggered this fascination. To mark it and claim it his own. His inner alpha already conquered his usually bright mind. It was howling, whomever this alluring omega is, take it, raid it, possess it and cage it in.

He extended one hand to turn the doorknob, but it was stuck. Unfortunately the door wasn't sturdy enough to stand against an aroused alpha, and of course, broke miserably after Sherlock's attempt. He scanned the room to find the omega of his interest.

Oh, and who owned the beautiful scent, was no more than John Watson, his best friend-completely naked, lying on the bed, covered in sweat and heaving.

~oOo~

John saw Sherlock. He saw the broken door. He saw Sherlock's eyes.

The beautiful blue eyes, always tranquil and keen was already clouded with something. As if he was bewitched by something, Sherlock advanced towards John.

"Sherlock."

John called his name to stop Sherlock's advance, but his voice was more of a moan. Instead of slowing Sherlock's pace down, it even made it faster. Sherlock came by, towering over the bed. He took John's chin in his hand. His eyes were gleaming beautifully. John looked back into the furious gaze.

"John."

The low baritone, whispered smoothly as silk. John almost broke down. He wanted to. But his reason was still there, holding him up, whispering back.  
_No, John._

_Why not, John? You want this. You want him. There he is, whom you want more than anything. Why not, John?_

John's muscles were already under control of the inner omega. John extended one arm, and pulled Sherlock into embrace. Sherlock threw his coat away. He was wearing a purple silk shirt underneath the coat. The purple dress shirt, perfectly fitting the alpha, lining his beautiful silhouette. Every time Sherlock put it on, John always cast a second glance toward Sherlock's direction secretly.

Sherlock leaned down, his lips touching John's. It destroyed the last stronghold, which John's reason depended upon. John opened his lips, and whispered in a tender voice.

"Take me."

His fingers trailed upon the purple dress shirt, tearing it off. Buttons poured down.

John's reason vanished with one last yelp.  
_This is going to ruin everything.  
_However, John's lips was already leaving a desperate kiss on Sherlock's nape.

* * *

**A/N**: Okay. How do you think of this? It's been a century since I've written something sexual, never in English-hope it's okay. There's going to be more smut next chapter, and then angst. This chapter is kinda angsty too, don't you think? Did I tell you I love angst?

Oh, this chapter may be a little short, but please think it of a bridging chapter-I'm planning to update one more soon to cover up for the length. ;)

Thank you for all those responses! And thank you, Cherik221B! I really appreciate that you read all of my story in one day! It would have taken quite a time, really. XD Then, till the next chapter!

By the way, in case of confusion: To distinguish between words of reason and words of 'omega', I put them in different form.  
Words in _italic_ are words of John's 'reason', and words in _italic and_ underlined are words of John's 'inner omega'. Hope you got it.


	14. (3) Interlude-Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Not owning 'em. All rights to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the producers of BBC.

* * *

Where Pathways Meet

3. Interlude  
Chapter 4: Heartstrings

~oOo~

John moaned, feeling Sherlock's fingers digging into his body.  
His body was already moist with the lube from his gland, which soothed the pain.  
Sherlock's lips hovered all over his body: neck, chest, stomach, waist, leg, thighs.  
His lips were hot. John flinched every time it touched his skin, with need and ecstasy.  
John felt Sherlock pushing another finger inside.

"Ah... Sherlock- Please- ah-!"

John moaned. He was almost whimpering, with pleasure yet with pain.

The air was already burning hot, dense with their pheromones which muddled with John's head.  
Sherlock's alabaster skin was gleaming in the misty dusk filling the bedroom.  
John admired the scene, while his mind was clouded with lust; beads of sweat sparkling on the pale white skin, sky blue eyes clouded with desire.

And the lips. John wanted to kiss them, but Sherlock's hands were holding him down firmly.

The fingers started to move. It was quite rough, considering he was a virgin, but John was already overwhelmed by the pheromones.  
He was enslaved by them, moving in sync with Sherlock's raid, rocking his hips and moaning loudly.  
Only his moans showed John's pain. It was teary, hoarse and desperate.  
The touching didn't last long. Sherlock was already hard enough. He whispered into John's ear, his silky baritone deep and rough.

"Turn around."

John obeyed, like a behaving omega would do for his alpha. He kneeled on his fours, one hand holding on the headboard.  
John felt Sherlock's long fingers grabbing his bottom, pulling them open; and then, pushed his aroused cock inside with one movement. John screamed.

"Sherlock- ah- argh-! No, Sher- no- ah-"

Despite John's moist glands, despite his aroused heat, Sherlock's crude movements were too rough for a virgin body.  
John held tight onto the headboard; if not, he felt he was about to crush down.  
His cheeks were streamed with tears-the salty beads, bore from his eyes, lined down his face and died at his screaming lips.

John encoutered his first heat like that-crying, moaning and calling out Sherlock's name.

~oOo~

It hurted. It hurted so much. John slowly opened his eyes. Every part, every inch of his body ached. Even sunlight felt sore on his sensitive skins, from the aftermath of the intense heat. The heat. Thinking of the word, John pushed his eyes wide open.

_What have I done?_

And then, his memory of four days poured on his mind.

John remembered Sherlock climbing onto his bed. Remembered the beautiful eyes, the sparkling blue with a dazed look of lust. Remembered, himself, leaning down on his back for Sherlock, opening legs and-

-_ Take me._

remembered his lips, betraying his own reason.  
John buried his face into his hands. Reality was unfathomable for him. The person sleeping next to him was a bloody Sherlock Holmes, completely naked.

The scene was something John craved even in his dreams since he was Fifteen years old, but he wasn't happy at all.  
Panic started to permeate his mind.

_What have I done?_

John quietly asked himself. Something whispered in the corner of his head.

_Why, of course, you tempted Sherlock into bed._

John trembled.  
He took a glance at Sherlock.  
He saw the reflection of the alpha, looking down at him last night.  
_- Mine._

Sherlock whispered in his memory. John answered.  
-_Yours, Sherlock. Yours. Forever._

For four days, the omega inside him whispered to Sherlock.  
But it was never satisfied. It dug up the deepest emotions, guarded by John's reason; the most sensible part, and pushed it out through his lips.  
For four days, John blurted out all of his heart in front of Sherlock.

It got out, compressed into three words:

-_I love you._

For four days, John whispered**_ that_ **to Sherlock.  
He slowly sat up. Reality was hard to fathom for the fragile omega.  
John silently chanted in his head. This is just a nightmare. Just my worst nightmare.

His back hurted so much. John felt something sticky running down his leg.  
Horrible pain cut through his spine the instant he stepped down on the floor.  
John fell to his knees, but he managed to get up on his feet. His legs trembled, but he stumbled further.

And there he was-the reflection, on the mirror.

His whole body was covered in hickeys and teeth marks. Some ended up in bruises.  
But what broke his heart was the white, sticky liquid marks engraved upon his inner thigh.  
John wanted to believe that everything was false. He wanted to believe that he was looking into the wrong mirror.

But it was real, as real as the sound of Sherlock breathing peacefully on his bed.

John swayed his way into the bathroom. He faced with yet another mirror.  
The cold reality was laughing at him.  
-_ They always have to seduce others, full of lust. How can they manage a normal life?_

John turned on the shower. Water poured down. John dazed at the things washed down from his own body.

The omega he feared his whole life, finally took over his reason.  
His basic instincts won over, revealing his inner self. The self John never wanted.

Sherlock. All John could ever think of was that name. Everything else was white.  
It hurted so much. John could hardly sit up.

It, hurted.

The cold breath of reality whispered into his ears.  
- _This is where omegas should be._

The endless biased statements John had to face through his life slowly stranged him.  
It hurted.  
It was okay till then. John thought himself was not such 'omega'.  
As long as he suppressed his emotions for Sherlock, as long as he concealed his instincts,  
as long as he did not tempt anyone into his bed, he believed he was clean.

He saw the white liquid Sherlock left on him was washed down into the drain.  
A part of John wanted it to stay... but it was crazy, anyway.

It hurted so much. John wanted to cry, but it hurted more.  
John buried his head into his arms.

Every time John was hurt from the biased words, he ran to Sherlock. Then Sherlock solved everything with one sentence.  
- You're not like them.

John stared at the white walls of the bathroom.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. It seems that you're wrong this time._

~oOo~

John's eyes trailed the letters on papers. It was more of a 'staring' rather than 'reading'.  
John's nerve was all concentrating on the moving organism on the opposite side of the living room.  
The moving organism, taking on his coat, stepping out of the flat.

The article was bickering on something about yet 'another suicide case,' but John could not care less.  
It wasn't until the skirt of Sherlock's coat disappeared upon the threshold when John let out a sigh.

When John came out of the shower three days ago, Sherlock was absent from the bathroom.  
John cleaned the room, and called a worker to repair his broken door. When Sherlock came back, every memory of the twisted heat was gone.  
It was since then John was avoiding Sherlock.

Sometimes Sherlock gazed long at him, its meaning unknown; but John 'read' books or left the flat every single time.

It was two days ago when John called up his sister.

When an omega have an unprotected sex on his first heat, there was a 90% chance that he could be pregnant.  
If one bonds during the intercourse, it jumps up to 95%.  
John knew the meaning of the red teeth mark Sherlock left on his shoulders, the 'bonding site.'

John talked to Harriet.

- Do you have the 'after-pills'?

Without any question, Harry brought the pills with her two hours later.

John was at the local café. Alone.  
It was one of the few occasions that John came out of the flat alone.  
John thought the occasions may be more frequent from now.

He saw a blonde alpha striding in confidence into the café. Some omegas sent a flirting glance to the blonde beauty, but nobody dared a shot at her.  
She was bonded, anyway. The wedding ring was gleaming on her fourth finger.  
Harry sat across from John. She rummaged through her bag, then produced a white box.

John's eyes never left the box.

- Those are Clara's.

Her voice was leaking of concern. However, she was still asking nothing.

- Is she okay?

Taking up the markless, white box, John asked quietly.  
Harry carefully perused John. Her deep blue eyes were marked with concern. Her eyes were marine blue, unlike the silver blue eyes of a certain alpha.  
There were waves in her eyes, but Sherlock's eyes are as fresh as a clear autumn wind blowing from the mountains.  
John carefully barred his thoughts from heading into the black-haired alpha's direction. Who he should be focusing on, was Harry.

Even though she was drunk during most of her teenage years, rehab helped her to find a second life.  
However, the biggest strength was Clara.  
Clara McKenzie. The Scottish omega, with blazing red hair and grass-green eyes, was Harry's bond mate. She was one of the sweetest omegas John ever met in his life. She came from the same high school Harry went to, and was working as a nurse in Harry's rehab.  
Helping Harry to recover from alcoholism brought them closer; on the first anniversary of Harry's release from the rehab, they married.

John remembered Harry's smile from that day-brighter than ever.

- ...She's okay.

Harry was still gazing at her younger brother.

The after-pills were not hard to acquire. After the 'omega-humanitarian law' was kick started two years ago, any omegas were able to acquire the 'after-pill' from their closest omega clinic, in condition of taking a pregnancy test.  
However, John wasn't sure enough he was able to face a doctor. No, solely a human being. He wasn't sure he was able to talk about this.  
He wasn't in mood for a pregnancy test, either. He believed he wasn't strong enough to face the results. He wasn't brave enough to erase the child even after he know he is actually pregnant. What will he do, then? Sherlock will never want a child, at least from John; and John couldn't stand the tragedy of raising a child as a single parent, especially one of Sherlock.

Finally, Harry asked.

- Who, on god's earth, is it?

John stared back into the defiant alpha's face.  
Harry was always his shining knight in armour. Thankfully she was blessed with the destiny of an alpha, so every time somebody picked on John-mostly because he was omega-she always beated up the child, risking the chance of punishment. It bothered their mother sometimes, but Harry always tied things up well.

Most of all, she was the first person who John talked about his 'emotions.'

- Is... it him? The Holmes?

John looked down. He saw Harry's hands curling into fists.  
She growled slowly, with her teeth clenched tight.

- He forced it, right? That crazy bastard. I always hated him. What did he do? Did he dragged you into his bed, using his family name?  
- Sherlock did nothing.

John looked up from the table. Despite his words, Harry was still frowning.

- I started it first.

Harry gawked.

- What happened?

She suddenly launched towards John, her speed quite impressive.  
Even before John managed a blink or two, she tore off John's shirt buttons.  
She saw the bond mark Sherlock left on John's shoulder.  
John dropped his head.

- ...It was a mistake. I forgot taking the suppression pills. Sherlock came to the flat, and I was the first...

John stopped, and took a breath.

- ...the first to, tempt him into bed.

_- Take me._

Any living soul could not charge Sherlock of any responsibility under the circumstance.  
Even when the omega resisted, clearly under intention of denial, the alpha-the assaulter- was declared innocent on the court.  
The sole reason was that the omega never said 'no'.

John's words was an invitation for anything in this biased world.  
John believed Harry knew that.  
However, Harry banged her fists into the table.  
John felt some eyes turning in their direction.

- Do you think that make sense?

John sealed his lips.

- John... You still craving? Mom told us. They never leave an omega by their side. It's a miracle that you're living in a _bloody_ same flat with him. Don't seek after that bastard, look for another. There would be a plenty of alphas out there, wanting you more than anything.

John's lips were still sealed tight. Harry sighed.

- And John... you're not 'that' kind of omega. You told me.  
- I was wrong, Harry.

John lifted his head. He looked into Harry's deep blue eyes, which were trembling.  
John smiled, with the air of self-contempt.

- Omegas should stay where they should be. You're an alpha... you'll never know.

John stood up. Harry was seated still, gaping.

- Thanks for the pill. I owe you one.

John blurted out, his words somewhat sharp. He strode out of the café.  
Just before he crossed the street, he turned back.

Harry was watching him, as if he was declared a death sentence though innocent.  
John turned around, staring far into the London atmosphere.

_Please, don't, Harry. Everything is my fault._

* * *

**A/N: **First of all, sorry for being too late. I was sooo busy. Still busy now. I was concerned that some may waited for the next chapter... there would be none, but who cares. Here it is!

So, now the Interlude is over, a new case is going to be developed. It is not from the BBC, purely based on canon.  
Something of a 'league'... you know it, don't you? *nudge*

Then, please let me know what you think! I always appreciate any review, long or short. ;)


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